


Knot Theory

by sprl1199



Series: Becoming [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Big Bang, Canon mystery update, M/M, case!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-18
Updated: 2011-09-18
Packaged: 2017-10-23 20:20:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 44,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/254545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sprl1199/pseuds/sprl1199
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Twenty minutes ago, Jim Moriarty walked into the Met and turned himself in.”</p><p>Written for <a href="http://holmes-big-bang.livejournal.com/">Holmes Big Bang</a> 2011.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> When Moriarty inexplicably walks into the Met and surrenders to the police, the happiness that Sherlock has found in his new relationship with John is suddenly threatened. Moriarty has a new set of riddles and dangers to test our heroes, and he has once again made London his playground in a perilous game with an uncertain prize. A sequel to [Cu Sylvatica](http://archiveofourown.org/works/157218/chapters/226499).
> 
>  **STUNNING art by[zebra_three](http://zebra-three.livejournal.com/) (really, you have to see it...it's gorgeous) [ HERE](http://zebra-three.livejournal.com/90191.html).**
> 
>  **Big AN:** Due to the author having _issues_ with staying on schedule, THIS STORY HAS NOT BEEN BRIT-PICKED. I did the best I could, but there are only so many linguistic acrobatics you can engage in when you’re not certain which word to use, so there will undoubtedly be some dirty Americanisms present. If you see one that’s particularly jarring, please feel free to note it in the comments or PM me, and I’ll fix it.

  
**Act 1: The Recognition Problem**   


**The basic problem of knot theory, the recognition problem, is determining the equivalence of two knots.**

Before:

It begins with a phone call from Mycroft.

Sherlock doesn’t answer it, of course. He being busy with an entirely fascinating experiment regarding the hydrolysis of phosphate esters, and Mycroft being Mycroft. He does take a moment to throw one of John’s jumpers (discarded on the sofa the night before) over it so its flashing lights do not interrupt his concentration.

As such, when John returns home that evening—greeting the mongrel and kissing Sherlock chastely on the cheek in an instance of domesticity that is so saccharine as to be almost painful—he takes one look at the missed calls notifications on Sherlock’s phone after retrieving his jumper and spectacularly overreacts.

“Sherlock! Would you _please_ call your brother?” John’s hair is lightly mussed from the wind outside (he hasn’t taken the time to have it trimmed to its typical military shortness, and it flops adorably over his ears), and he looks adorably flustered.

Sherlock glances up briefly from the notes he is taking on his laptop to give his flatmate an arch look. “Not interested.”

“I’m serious,” John says. Seriously. “Or text him, if you’d rather.”

“I don’t see why it’s any concern of yours.”

“It’s a concern of mine when he gives up on contacting you and starts calling me instead,” John says, running a hand through his hair in exasperation. “And since it looks as though he’s already tried fifteen times today, I imagine the harassment is going to start in the very near future.”

“You’re overreacting.”

“ _Fifteen!_ ”

On cue, John’s phone beeps, and Sherlock becomes the recipient of a rather aggrieved look.

“Don’t be melodramatic. You don’t know that it’s him,” Sherlock says.

The phone beeps again from where it rests charging on their end table. Gladstone trots over to sniff at it curiously, and John’s eyes narrow.

Sherlock sighs. “I’ll see what he wants,” he gives in grudgingly.

After all, it is a hallmark of relationships that often compromise is in order. Sherlock is amenable to the idea, so long as John doesn’t come to expect it to be a frequent occurrence.

**  
Day 1:

“You want me to chase down a truant child?” Sherlock injects his voice with just the right amount of sneering disdain to relay precisely what he thinks of the request. And because it’s a tone his brother has always found intensely annoying.

Mycroft’s jaw twitches oh so slightly—a reaction only one who knows him well would notice—and Sherlock smirks triumphantly as he shifts in one of the ancient, wooden chairs that his brother seems to insist on populating his office with. The resulting creak echoes loudly in the small space.

“I want you to locate a missing boy,” Mycroft corrects. “The missing son of a Duke, to be exact. And I highly doubt that truancy was involved, given the particulars of the case.”

Sherlock takes the bait, though not before he subjects his brother to a long, hard stare at the obvious manipulative tactic. “What particulars exactly?”

“The boy, ten-year-old Lord Saltire, disappeared from his room at his preparatory school in the middle of the night two evenings ago. Based on the contents remaining of his wardrobe, he was fully clothed but took no additional attire with him. There is also some indication that he climbed down the ivy to reach the ground from his second-storey window.”

Sherlock forces another creak out of the chair. “I fail to see anything of interest in those particulars, Mycroft.”

“We also believe the boy took possession of one of the other pupil’s bicycles,” Mycroft continues, giving Sherlock a disapproving look at the interruption. “The bicycle was found missing the morning after the child’s disappearance: blue, with a patched tyre.”

“Clearly the boy is a budding criminal genius. Why have you bothered me with this, exactly? Your favoured brand of sadism is usually more subtle than this.”

“The boy’s German instructor is also missing. A man called Heidegger.”

“How scandalous,” Sherlock replies blandly, wringing another tortured sound from his chair, and for just a moment, Mycroft looks truly pained.

“Lord Saltire’s father, the Duke of Holdernesse, believes that kidnapping is involved, though as of yet there have been no ransom demands. He is estranged from the boy’s mother; however, their separation sounds as amicable as is possible under such circumstances. She is currently in the south of France.”

“Oh, honestly, Mycroft,” Sherlock says, throwing his head back over the edge of the chair and pushing himself into a spin out of sheer boredom. “The boy ran away to join his mother. Obviously. He’ll be found in a day or two curled up on bench at a train station and rained with sweets while he waits for his father to come fetch him.”

Mycroft’s face remains gravely composed. “Without a doubt, that is the most preferred outcome. But it is not one William, the boy’s father, is willing to assume will occur. Nor am I.”

Sherlock peers at his brother. “The Duke. He’s a friend of yours?” The word ‘friend’ sits oddly on his tongue when applied to his brother. He has never known Mycroft to have people in his life beyond assistants and sycophants. And Sherlock, of course.

“He is a valued acquaintance,” Mycroft confirms. “We were at school together for a time.”

Sherlock makes a noncommittal sound, pushing himself through another two rotations in the chair while considering the request. He doesn’t have any other cases going at the moment, and John had mentioned something about extra leisure time in the near future due to the surgery being closed for some type of renovation or another. Sherlock hadn’t paid attention to the specifics, beyond the noteworthy fact that John will be freer over the next week or so.

And should the boy have somehow managed to leave London, a short trip to France with John would not be in any way a hardship.

“Text me the information,” Sherlock says, abruptly climbing to his feet.

Mycroft smiles approvingly, though Sherlock finds it is less infuriating than normal, and waves a file folder meaningfully in Sherlock’s direction. “I took the liberty of having copies printed for you.”

Sherlock takes the folder with a grimace. “Hard copy. Do consider joining us in the twenty-first century, Mycroft.”

“I will take your suggestion under advisement,” his brother replies solemnly, which is the closest he ever comes to humour.

Sherlock pauses before he reaches the door. “Given your connection to the Duke, I would have thought you’d have handled this yourself.” The question is implicit, and Mycroft doesn’t pretend to misinterpret.

“Unfortunately, I will be leaving the country this evening.”

“International travel? You?” Sherlock grins at his brother’s obvious discomfort.

Mycroft glares at him sourly. “It is unavoidable. I shall no doubt be out of contact for several days.”

“If you yourself are unavailable to assist the Duke, you could have put your best people on it,” Sherlock says, raising an eyebrow.

“I did,” his brother says crisply, already returning to the documents lying in orderly piles across his desk.

The rush of pleasure is unexpected (though agreeable), and Sherlock leaves quickly before his brother can manage to shock him for a third time.

**

The Duke answers the door himself when Sherlock arrives.

He’s a large man: broad-shouldered and beginning to carry a bit of a paunch. His hair has thinned considerably on top, but his complexion is surprisingly youthful.

His eyes are red-rimmed.

“Holmes?” he asks, voice soft. At Sherlock’s nod, he steps back and allows the detective entry into a cavernous entry hall. Strangely cavernous, really, and appearing even larger due to the absence of any furniture or decoration.

“I’m in the process of redecorating,” the Duke explains at Sherlock’s questioning look around the profoundly empty entry. “My wife-, my ex-wife, requested the majority of the furniture when she left. Unfortunately for me, she was the one with all the taste. I have absolutely no idea what to put in here.” The Duke stands for a moment and surveys the room, as though taking stock of the amount of space he needs to see to filling.

“There are still a couple of chairs in the library. We can talk in there. At least it will be somewhat comfortable.”

The library does indeed contain chairs: two hand-carved antique armchairs in dark, burnished leather crouching heavily near the cold fireplace. The library does not, for whatever reason, contain books—the shelves empty and gleaming from a recent cleaning—but Sherlock decides that is a mystery he can afford to let lie.

“You’re Mycroft’s brother?” the Duke asks as he settles himself slowly into one of the chairs. Sherlock does likewise.

“I am,” Sherlock confirms, steepling his hands as he leans against the backrest. It’s surprisingly plush and comfortable, and he settles himself against it with subtle relish.

“I didn’t realize Mycroft had a brother,” the Duke murmurs. “We were at school together, but we didn’t know one another particularly well. I suppose he just might not have told me. Same parents?”

“Presumably. What can you tell me about your son’s disappearance?”

If the Duke is taken aback by Sherlock’s abrupt entry into the topic, he makes no sign of it. “Very little, I’m afraid. I was away on business when it happened.”

“Where were you?”

“Glasgow,” he replies, leaning forward to reach a small table set to the side of the chairs and removing a pipe. The smell of the loose tobacco prickles in Sherlock’s nose, and he abruptly wants a cigarette. Or a nicotine patch.

“I have business interests there,” the Duke continues.

“How did you learn he was missing?” Sherlock asks.

The Duke doesn’t answer immediately, instead filling his pipe and lighting it with a ponderous slowness. He takes a draw of the smoke, but he doesn’t seem to particularly enjoy it.

“James. My personal assistant. He called me.”

“James?”

“James Wilder.”

“And how did he know of the disappearance?”

“The headmaster of Quentin’s school, Huxtable, came by looking for him when they realized he wasn’t in his room.” Sherlock notices that the man’s hands are trembling very slightly as he holds his pipe, and—perhaps sensing his regard—the Duke lowers them to rest on his thighs.

“He was here then? James?” Sherlock asks, tilting his head forward as he stares at the other man. John told him once that the mannerism is off-putting and occasionally nerve-wracking to those he’s interviewing, and Sherlock had told John that that was the entire reason he employed it.

Mycroft’s school chum or not, the Duke is hiding something.

“He occasionally stays the night at the house to keep an eye on things when I’m away,” the Duke explains. He begins to worry the pipe between his fingers. Like all of his movements, it is done slowly and deliberately, but Sherlock knows a nervous fidget when he sees one.

Sherlock smiles encouragingly at the Duke to go on. It’s entirely insincere, but the other doesn’t appear to realize his pretence.

“He’s been my assistant for well over a year now.” The Duke says, clearly feeling compelled to fill the silence. The fact that he chooses to continue to discuss his assistant is interesting. “He’s been excellent. A Godsend.”

“It sounds as though you trust him a great deal,” Sherlock says noncommittally. Rather than answer immediately, the Duke takes another puff from his pipe, and Sherlock smiles again. This time the expression is authentic.

“Sir?” a voice—young, masculine—reverberates through the empty house and comes to rest in the library.

“In here, James,” the Duke calls in response. He appears to be reaching the end of his endurance for prevarication, and the relief in his tone is more obvious than it would have been at the start of the interview.

James Wilder is young—in his very early 20s—as large as the Duke, and very handsome: a fact with which he is evidently extremely comfortable, if the wide, charming smile he adopts as he enters the library is any indication.

“James Wilder,” the arrival says, holding out his hand welcomingly as Sherlock rises from his chair.

Sherlock takes it and returns the expression with a charming smile of his own (he has been practicing one with a shade of bashfulness that he finds particularly effective).

“Sherlock Holmes,” he returns.

“The brother of a former schoolmate of mine,” the Duke explains. He remains seated for the exchange, looking increasingly ill at ease. “A private detective.”

“Really? A detective?” James continues to smile engagingly, but the expression no longer meets his eyes: a light hazel. Like the Duke’s.

“A consulting detective, actually,” Sherlock says, dropping his eyes as though self-conscious. “My brother asked me to see if I can help in the search for your employer’s son as a favour to him. We’re very close, my brother and I,” he adds earnestly, on a whim.

“What brothers aren’t?” Wilder asks. The question is presumably rhetorical, but the jealousy behind the words would be readily apparent to even a casual observer, and from the corner of his eye, Sherlock sees the Duke stifle a wince.

“If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” the Duke says, rising to his feet and looking blankly around the room. “I need a glass of water. Would you like some as well, Mr Holmes?” he asks belatedly.

Sherlock declines, and the man leaves the room as though he’s fleeing.

“I’m just so surprised that Quentin would have run off,” Wilder says, taking the now vacant second chair. “They said he stole one of the other pupil’s bicycles? That’s not like him at all. But I suppose I don’t know him all that well, really.”

“Do you have any idea where he might have gone?” Sherlock asks.

“I’m afraid not,” Wilder answers regretfully. “Have you tried the boy’s mother? He’s very fond of her. That seems the most likely place he’d have run away to. Or perhaps one of his school friends?”

The large frame, hazel eyes, and patrician chin are not the only traits that James Wilder shares with the Duke, and—not for the first time—Sherlock wonders if the ability to lie convincingly (or fail to, in this case) is genetic.

“Perhaps,” Sherlock answers noncommittally before standing.

“You’re not going so soon?”

“I’m afraid I must be off,” Sherlock says smoothly, smiling fixedly down at the other man. A whisper of nervousness begins to bloom in Wilder’s eyes. “I’ll stop by later, if I have any other questions.”

He passes the Duke—who is indeed holding a glass of water, though he seems uncertain of why exactly he has it—on his way to the door.

“Mr Holmes?”

“I’ll tell Mycroft you send your regards,” Sherlock says as he leaves. He wishes for a moment that he had a hat or cane on his person: some prop to twirl in his hand and mark a jaunty departure.

Kidnapping, indeed. Mycroft owes him: for forcing Sherlock to interact with the daftest of criminals if nothing else.

**

“This brings back memories,” John says, kicking at a stray stone on the path outlining the school’s perimeter. Sherlock had requested that John join him at the school immediately after leaving the surgery, and the chemicals that cling to his partner waft lightly on the autumn breeze as they circumnavigate the outermost buildings.

They have been exploring for almost an hour: John rambling about the irritation of an overabundance of welders underfoot in the surgery (apparently the renovations involve the introduction of high-quality steel beams to reinforce the walls, or some other such nonsense) and Sherlock recounting his visit to the Duke’s house. John had been particularly amused by Sherlock’s pantomime of the Duke’s nervous tics.

Sherlock stares at his friend in mock perplexity at the statement. “Of circumventing a structure while combing the ground for traces left by a likely non-kidnapped child?”

“No, of being in school. Berk,” John says, smiling. “It’s hard to believe we were ever that young, isn’t it?” He motions toward the cricket pitch where—rather than following traditional rules—a group of young men appear to be chasing one another around with the bats. Their shouts and whoops carry across the field.

“Mmm, I don’t believe I was ever _that_ young,” Sherlock says, sparing a glance for the roughhousing boys before returning his attention to the edge of the pavement. “Is it too much to ask for the groundskeepers to be a bit less fanatical in their sweeping? What if the boy had actually been kidnapped?” he mutters.

John ignores him. “That’s a shame. I bet you were a handful.”

Sherlock keeps his eyes on the irritatingly well-tended ground. “Mycroft would agree with you, I’m sure. He took over my education after my twelfth tutor resigned.”

“Twelfth?” John asks, stifling a laugh. “What on Earth did you do?”

“At the time, I had a passion for reptiles: snakes, lizards, turtles. Those sorts of things. It was all very educational, not that any of the tutors my parents employed were perceptive enough to realize it. When Mycroft left for university, I created my own curriculum and educated myself.”

“That’s…not surprising at all, really.”

“Aha!” Sherlock stoops suddenly and peers at an imprint in the dirt just off the paved path they have been walking on.

“You’ve found something?”

“This is an imprint of a patched bicycle tyre. Given its depth and definition, it was ridden by a child weighing approximately 32 kilograms sometime within the last forty-eight hours.”

“Do you think it’s Saltire’s? Or the one he stole at any rate?” John asks. He has hunkered down next to Sherlock and, judging by his face, is enjoying the hunt as much as Sherlock had hoped he would. Given the situation (the perpetrator having been identified almost immediately), Sherlock wasn’t certain John would still want to accompany him.

“We can’t be certain, of course, but it’s plausible.” Sherlock snaps a photo of the tyre mark with his phone before looking off in the direction the bicycle had been travelling. East. Toward the school’s back gate, which—according to the file Mycroft gave him—is frequently left unattended.

“Why are we doing this, exactly? If you already think you know who did it-“

“I _know_ I know who did it.”

“-then what’s the point of coming to the school at all? Shouldn’t you just tell the police where the boy is?” They are still crouched over the tyre mark, gently leaning against the other, which makes the moment rather more pleasant than the other occasions when Sherlock found himself hunkered down on the pavement.

“The Duke of Holdernesse never reported his son’s disappearance to the police,” Sherlock explains.

“But he called Mycroft?”

“Clearly he knew which source would be the more helpful.”

“I thought you said the father is involved,” John says, openly puzzled.

“He is now, but he wasn’t from the start. If he was, he wouldn’t have asked Mycroft for help. Presumably he’d know that Mycroft, above all others, would see through a false kidnapping scheme. If he was involved initially and merely trying to throw off suspicion, it would have been far safer for him to call the police.”

“But now he knows where his son is and is still pretending that he’s missing?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says resolutely, straightening up from his crouch. “Though if he’s at all clever—debatable from what I saw—he’ll report that the boy ran away to his mother’s house in France and was recovered after a brief absence.”

John stays crouched, face scrunched up as he concentrates. “You think that the personal assistant is the one who planned it all, that’s obvious. But why would the Duke go along with it? Why not report him? Or sack him at the very least?”

“James Wilder is the Duke’s son.”

John’s eyebrow rises. “That’s unexpected. You’re sure?”

“Their bone structure is strikingly compatible.”

“So Wilder, what?, kidnapped Saltire and then had a change of heart and confessed it to the Duke after he’d already raised the alarm?”

“Or the Duke discovered his involvement on his own. Either way, he chose to protect Wilder rather than alert others to his crime.”

“But, if that’s all true, why is Saltire still ‘missing’?”

Sherlock is beginning to lose interest in the explanation. Motives are by far the least appealing aspect of an investigation. “I expect Wilder hired a proxy to do the actual kidnapping—someone with actual criminal experience—and got in over his head,” he replies disinterestedly.

John frowns. “Are they in danger?”

“Not for long. They’re in the process of fleeing the country.”

“They’re _fleeing the country_?” John’s eyes go wide.

“Most likely,” Sherlock replies, taken aback by his flatmate’s shock. “The house is almost entirely packed.”

“We need to tell someone.” Occasionally John can become (rather endearingly) worried about the welfare of individuals with which he has no association whatsoever. It’s one of Sherlock’s favourite, albeit puzzling, traits of his.

“Why? The boy is in no danger, and if the state of the house is any indication, the Duke and Wilder will be out of the country later this evening.”

“Whoever it is they’re afraid of could still come after them,” John says stubbornly.

Sherlock sighs. “Fine. I will inform Mycroft’s assistant of my findings. She’ll no doubt see to it that they’re monitored. Will that do?”

“It will,” John says, mouth twisted into a lopsided, affectionate smile as he looks up at Sherlock. “Though you still didn’t explain what exactly it is we’re doing here.”

“There’s still the matter of the missing German instructor,” Sherlock reminds him. “I also thought it would be…enjoyable to work through the specifics of the case with you here.”

John’s smile is blinding. “You just wanted an audience,” he teases fondly.

“A specific one,” Sherlock agrees, willing himself not to descend (further) into rank sentimentality.

“So, now what?” John asks, standing up at last and dusting off his knees. His eyes are bright, and his cheeks are lightly flushed from their walk around the grounds. Sherlock wants to kiss him.

So he does. Even after six weeks, the realization that these moments are something he can have whenever he chooses is still a heady, unexpected delight. The boys on the cricket pitch catcall at the sight, but neither he nor John take any notice.

Sherlock steps back at last and grabs John’s hand at the wrist, pulling him in his wake as he strides back toward the school.

“Now, we search Saltire’s and Heidegger’s rooms.”

“For?” John asks, gamely keeping pace with Sherlock’s longer legs as they rush toward the school.

“Anything of consequence.” Sherlock bends his head toward his friend with a smile. “Barring that, toads and snakes. It’s my understanding that Saltire is an enthusiastic herpetologist.”

John returns his grin. “If you find any, you’re not bringing them home with you.”

**

David Heidegger’s classroom proves to be disappointingly empty of helpful evidence. The man clearly leads a Spartan existence, owning only a small case of books (primarily German texts) and a battered trunk (military in style) holding extra, rather threadbare, clothing. The file Mycroft had given him states that the man’s flat was already searched the day he was reported missing, with nothing revealing found, and Sherlock decides to leave his own search of the premises until the following day. Saltire’s dormitory bedroom is, if possible, even less revealing, and after an hour of fruitless searching, they return to Baker Street to pass the remainder of their night.

They pass it in an activity to which Sherlock is fast becoming addicted.

John is ticklish behind his right knee, the knee of his ‘bad’ leg. And for all that it’s psychosomatic, Sherlock likes to think of himself (is learning that he likes to think of himself) as a polite lover. He holds the leg up gently—ensuring full extension of the joint without overextending even slightly on the off chance that it may cause John some pain—as he runs his index finger lightly and repeatedly over the soft skin beneath.

John squirms delightfully. Then he accidentally kicks Sherlock’s head, which is less delightful.

“Sorry,” John breathes, not looking sorry in the slightest. Sherlock scowls at him, though—given the shambles their activities have made of his hair—he anticipates it lacks its usual ferocity. At any rate, John smiles up at him fondly from where he lays across Sherlock’s bed.

“Come here,” John murmurs, pushing himself up onto his hands and using the new position to slide his hand behind Sherlock’s neck and pull him down. Sherlock is required to release John’s leg, but his new position—spread atop his friend, the two of them pressed together from forehead to somewhere down near their knees—is worth the loss.

“Come here,” John says again, pulling Sherlock in for a kiss (admittedly there’s not any degree of resistance on Sherlock’s part) while simultaneously transferring his grip on Sherlock’s neck to his hair. Sherlock had noted John seemed inordinately fond of it—though he’s trying not to analyse its implications for John’s character too much, at John’s request—and the majority of their encounters over the last six weeks have resulted in Sherlock’s hair looking, upon conclusion, entirely wrecked.

Sherlock’s thoughts cut off as John shifts his knees up to cradle Sherlock’s hips and begins to move. It’s neither sinuous nor particularly elegant, but it _is_ slow and deliberate, and it brings John’s arousal into direct contact with Sherlock’s own with each catch and glide of his hips. Sherlock presses down on him—automatically, helplessly—and John groans, throwing his head back and speeding up his movements, and Sherlock has no option but to reciprocate.

There’s little finesse in their coupling: John stated directly early-on that he has no patience for such things, and Sherlock had assumed, given his own character, that he would find them equally intolerable. But the touch of skin on skin and heat on heat is enough—more than enough—to bring them to an almost painful degree of arousal seemingly in an instant.

John groans once more as their joined hips begin to move more quickly before closing his eyes and falling silent beyond a few ragged breaths from a mouth he doesn’t close (a lovely, full mouth, Sherlock thinks, before forcibly cutting off the internal ode).

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Sherlock has discovered himself to be a silent lover, the vast majority of his attention devoted to watching John’s face and body for the most minute of reactions (‘creepy’ John had said; ‘thorough’ Sherlock had retorted). Until at last pleasure overwhelms him and he shakes apart, gasping, in John’s arms.

John follows a moment later and takes a minute to run a soothing hand up and down Sherlock’s back (as though gentling a nervous pet, Sherlock occasionally thinks uncharitably before dismissing the thought).

They lay there together, the heat between them cooling as the excess energy—energy they created purely by their mutual presence in each other’s orbit—is siphoned off into the atmosphere.

As after every sexual encounter during the previous six weeks, Sherlock reflects (marvels, really) at how absolutely perfect their rapport with one another is.

He also wonders, with something that is beginning to border on despair, why it isn’t enough.

**  
Day 2:

It was clear to Sherlock within his first twenty-four hours of knowing the man that John Watson is a special sort: a man who stands out from the rest of the frequently dull morass of humanity through an air of quiet confidence and obstacles overcome.

(John also distinguishes himself due to his proficiency with firearms, as Sherlock learned in the second twenty-four hours of acquaintance.)

Sherlock additionally knows himself to be without peer; John can roll his eyes all he like at the evidence of arrogance, but he would never dispute the finding itself.

With two such competent, unmatched individuals merging their lives and energies together, Sherlock knows objectively that the resultant reaction should be explosive. Apocalyptic.

And it is. The problem—if it can even be termed as such—is that Sherlock has the slightest niggling (and sometimes not so niggling) doubt that he and John are doing all that lovers are supposed to do.

Physically their interactions are wonderful, but, though Sherlock has little practical experience on which to base the notion, he knows that there is more they could be doing together.

John has yet to come to Sherlock’s bed, instead choosing to direct all of their encounters to his own room or, more frequently, initiating them in shared spaces, primarily the couch.

And neither of them has attempted to initiate something more intimate than frottage and mutual masturbation (aside from one ill-advised attempt at oral sex when Sherlock had been feeling especially curious about the taste of another man; John had jerked in spasmodic surprise; his knee had impacted Sherlock’s chin hard enough to result in a bitten tongue, and that had been the end of that).

Not that any sexual act could be classified as anything other than intimate. But Sherlock knows that there are certainly more they could engage in. Or at the very least attempt to engage in.

He fears that John is holding back. And if John is in fact keeping a part of himself segregated and reserved, he fears the cause: Sherlock’s temperament, those obsessions that so frequently overwhelmed him…his past.

Sherlock knows he’s not by any means an easy person to have a relationship with. On some level, he doubts he’s even capable of maintaining one at all, recent evidence notwithstanding. But the idea that John might think so as well—might be waiting for the other shoe to drop and their new, precious connection to spectacularly combust—causes something in his chest to quail.

Sherlock doesn’t want to broach the topic because he knows John may misinterpret his motivation, and he certainly doesn’t want the other man to feel pressured to take their sexual interactions further than he is comfortable with.

But what if John is never comfortable? Or, worse still, what if he is never comfortable with Sherlock?

“Hey.”

The hail is followed by a blunt, lightly callused finger poking at Sherlock’s side. Repeatedly. He bats it aside before John realizes he has a ticklish spot of his own, though given Sherlock’s unmitigated reaction approximately a week previously, it is likely John already suspects this weakness.

The finger returns again, this time just to the left of his stomach (John has demonstrated an unexpected fascination with trailing his touch along Sherlock’s ribs). “What are you thinking about?”

“What makes you think I’m thinking about anything?” Sherlock feels John shift where he lies next to him on the bed. It’s late—or perhaps extremely early; Sherlock hasn’t bothered to check the time since his unquiet thoughts woke him—and the world outside is dark and hushed.

“You’re always thinking. It’s an unavoidable quirk of yours.” John is smiling gently, Sherlock can see in the dim light filtering into the bedroom from the lamp outside. The burnished gold of his hair is muted to grey in the dark, but Sherlock can picture it as clearly as if the room was flooded with light.

“Perhaps I was overcome by our activities.”

His friend snorts. “Maybe for twenty seconds or so.”

“You don’t credit yourself with much prowess as a lover.”

John pauses. “I’m not going to touch that one. But, no, you have that wrinkle you get when you’re pondering something complicated.”

“Wrinkle?” Sherlock’s hand rises automatically to his face, and John chuckles before lightly touching an area between Sherlock’s eyes.

“Until meeting you, I always thought you brilliant, academic types were above vanity.”

“It’s not vanity,” Sherlock corrects, closing his eyes at the enjoyable feeling of John’s finger as it continues its survey of his facial bone structure. “It’s practical. One can pass for older with an application of makeup and other stagecraft. It’s more difficult to pass for younger when the signs of age become apparent.”

“Mmhmm.” John’s tone is openly sceptical and warm with good humour. “I suppose those tailored shirts you favour are also practical, then?”

“Of course,” Sherlock says, reopening his eyes to meet John’s gaze in the faint light. As always, it threatens to steal his breath for just a moment before he catches himself. He hopes he moves past the ridiculous urge at some point before his reputation suffers too much damage. “What would be the point of clothing that doesn’t fit properly?”

“Most people get by just fine with what they buy off the peg.”

“Most people purchase piles of ill-fitting clothing on a whim only to throw it in the bin a month later. I order only what I need, when I need it. Practically.”

“So you only purchase practical silk then?”

“Now you’re being purposefully obtuse.”

John laughs and leans in to kiss him for an instant that quickly grows into a minute. Sherlock enthusiastically supports the lengthening of time.

John eventually pulls away, loosing a regretful sigh as he does so. “I need to leave for the surgery.”

“You were just there yesterday.”

“Yes, that’s the funny thing about standard work hours: they have a way of repeating in incremental blocks.”

“Call in sick,” Sherlock issues the order to John’s lips after closing the ground on his friend’s retreat. “God knows you’re likely to have caught something working in that place.”

“I can’t leave them short. They’re overworked as it is, and we’ll be closed the rest of the week while they knock down the walls to put in those damn steel beams, so today is the last opportunity to get patients in.” John refuses to be swayed by the placement of Sherlock’s hands on his shoulders, so Sherlock shifts them to more persuasive territory.

John gasps. “Sherlock,” he murmurs. As every time Sherlock hears that little quaver in his flatmate’s voice, a small thrill trembles up his spine.

“John,” Sherlock returns, tightening his grip meaningfully and beginning to lie slowly back down, pulling John with him.

John lets out a shuddering breath before abruptly pushing forward (suddenly lacking resistance, Sherlock falls flat on his back) and tickling Sherlock’s side. Sherlock lets go of his flatmate in surprise, and John darts in for a quick kiss.

“Later.” John’s voice is ragged, which is something of a victory. Sherlock supposes. “I promise.”

Feeling the heat that had been so promisingly kindled disperse, Sherlock waves a dismissive hand in John’s direction as he rolls over pointedly in the rumpled sheets. “Oh, go give injections or whatever it is you do there.”

John drops one more kiss on the back of Sherlock’s head before walking resolutely to the door: a ridiculous, if almost poignantly tender gesture. “I’ll be off at five so we can head back to the school. Have the kettle on, if you’d be so kind.”

John closes the door before the pillow Sherlock launches can hit him.

**

Sherlock is in the kitchen continuing his previously interrupted experiment—Gladstone sitting under the table watching intently for a dropped bit of food—when Lestrade rings. As such, it takes Sherlock five repetitions of his mobile alert (well above his average response rate) to answer, and even then, he is distracted by the phosphoric acid.

“Holmes,” Sherlock grunts, before immediately dropping the mobile to adjust the flame of the burner. Lestrade’s voice, tinny and entirely unintelligible, wafts from the floor.

“A moment, Lestrade,” Sherlock calls down to it. “My hands are full of ester.”

“Sherlock!” His name is recognizable as the Inspector’s voice rises in volume, and the dog cocks his head at the mobile curiously.

The liquid begins to boil over, and Sherlock grabs for it before it can land on the floor and eat through the rug. Again.

“Damnit, Sherlock!” Lestrade shouts into the line. “This is important!”

In Sherlock’s haste to remove the beaker from the heat, he grabs it clumsily and burns the side of his index finger. He translates the sudden pain into a loud stomp of his foot on the floor, and the phone flips from the force of the resultant vibrations.

“ _Sherlock_!” Lestrade calls again through the now upside down mobile.

“Sherlock?” Mrs Hudson, one floor down. “Is everything alright? Have you broken something again?”

He snatches the mobile from the rug with violent energy. “Everything’s fine, Mrs Hudson!” he shouts at the floor before stepping to the sink and sticking his finger under a stream of cold water. Seeing his new proximity to the cupboard, Gladstone whines at him hopefully. Idiotic animal.

“What?” Sherlock snaps—at last—into the phone. “If you’re calling to request my assistance on a case that will once again prove to have an entirely trivial explanation, I will have no choice but to send a series of embarrassing emails from your personal account.” The pain from the burn on his finger makes his voice especially caustic.

It takes him a beat to realize that the Inspector has not responded.

“Lestrade? If you’re going to disturb me in the middle of a delicate experiment, the least you can do is be present on the line.” His finger is beginning to show signs of a blister, which will severely hamper his violin practice. Bugger.

“Sherlock, you need to come down to the station.” Lestrade’s voice isn’t tentative, but the initial pause is more than enough to put Sherlock on guard.

“What’s happened? Is it John?” He asks immediately, calculating the worst possible scenario and moving forward from there.

The Inspector is quick to reassure. “No, no. John is fine. He’s at the surgery, right? Can you call him?”

“Lestrade, get to the point.” Sherlock cuts in impatiently. “What is it?”

This time there’s no pause. “Twenty minutes ago, Jim Moriarty walked into the Met and turned himself in.”

Then, after a minute of complete silence: “Sherlock? Are you alright?”

He feels a burning in his chest and consciously tells himself to breathe. His voice is unperturbed and assured when he responds to Lestrade’s tacit question.

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”


	2. Chapter 2

Lestrade meets him at the door to the station. The fact that his face is so grim—here, at least fifty yards from the man Sherlock has come to see—is the best possible testament of the DI’s worry.

“Did you call Dr Watson?” Lestrade asks. He’s frowning intensely. Sherlock is certain he hasn’t stopped since Moriarty so inexplicably walked into his custody.

“Tell me what happened. Exactly.” Sherlock says instead of responding. John is safer where he is ( _Unless, what if he isn’t? What if this is exactly what Moriarty is expecting Sherlock to do?_ ). With a wrench, he silences his vocal inner concern. He can’t afford to doubt himself. Not before he knows exactly what is going on.

Lestrade doesn’t prevaricate. “At 10:22 a.m., James Moriarty walked in through this door, introduced himself to the officer manning the front desk, then sat down in that chair, there.”

‘That chair, there’ proves to be one of the cream-coloured, utilitarian affairs that populate the station’s public lobby. At first glance, it appears not remarkable in the slightest, but Sherlock notes with approval that Lestrade has set an officer to guard it from those members of the public who could unintentionally destroy critical evidence.

The lobby isn’t particularly full at the moment: pockets of individuals scattered in a chaotic pattern that nonetheless manages to ensure they remain as far away from each other as possible. They are sitting or standing, flipping through out-dated magazines or chatting in low voices to their companions or on their mobiles, entirely unaware of the drama unfolding around them.

“Tell the officer monitoring the security feed for this room to get a detailed recording of everyone’s face,” Sherlock orders Lestrade quietly.

Lestrade catches on immediately. “You think he may have an accomplice?”

“We know he has a vast network of underlings. It wouldn’t be too much to suppose that one of them is here. Now.”

Lestrade nods. “I’ll get someone on it.” He pauses a beat. “Are you ready?”

( _No._ ) Rather than answer, Sherlock strides past the DI and walks into the Met’s restricted area.

Given the expression that is no doubt on his face, he’s unsurprised when the constable standing guard at the door makes no move to check his credentials.

**  
Moriarty looks exactly the same. Same fitted, lightly shiny grey suit. Same small, arrogant smile draped across the lips, as though he’s internally laughing at some private joke. And, though Sherlock has never actually seen it demonstrated, the same lazily insolent posture where he sits draped across the interrogation room’s chair, a rather nervous looking constable hovering behind him. The sprawling scar the acid left on his left cheek is harshly visible in the stark lighting, but even this seems to be as it should, and belatedly Sherlock realizes that he’s dreamed of this moment. Dreamed of it so often that this sudden reappearance is not in any way unexpected.

Except, of course, for how shocking it actually is.

“Why are you here?” Lestrade asks bluntly. The Inspector is inside the interrogation room while Sherlock observes from behind the one-way mirror with Sally Donovan at his side (given her speculative glance between Sherlock and her handcuffs when Sherlock entered the room, Sherlock suspects Lestrade tasked her with assuring he stays on the far side of the glass for the duration of the interview).

Moriarty pretends, in an obvious moment of over-acting, to startle at the Inspector’s question. He shakes the handcuff gracing his wrists meaningfully in response. “Why, I’m in your custody, Inspector. I would have thought that was obvious.” His tone is openly mocking ( _familiar_ ), and even with the poor angle, Sherlock can see Lestrade stiffen slightly.

“ _Why_ did you place yourself into our custody?”

Moriarty blinks innocently up at Lestrade. “I’m a dangerous criminal, aren’t I? Wanted for eight separate counts in Europe alone, the last time I checked.” He cocks his head to the side in a parody of confusion that is a beat too slow to be real: a gesture intended to unsettle. “Aren’t you glad to have caught such a menace to polite society? I bet there’ll be a promotion in this for you. This is a _happy_ occasion, Inspector. Try not to look so foreboding.”

Lestrade has clearly forced his shoulders to relax—all too aware of the importance of body language thanks to his interactions with Sherlock—but his voice is still taut.

“We didn’t catch you; you turned yourself in. What I want to know is why.”

“Mmm, there’s the rub. Perhaps I saw the error of my ways. Had a change of heart, as it were.”

“That would require having one to begin with.”

Moriarty laughs, throwing his head back in almost violently unrestrained mirth that is far out of step with what the statement deserves. The sound echoes in the small, enclosed space, and Sherlock can see the constable guarding the man take an involuntary step backwards at the outburst. The sound stops as abruptly as it began, and Moriarty returns his gaze to Lestrade. His eyes are dancing in amusement, mouth twisted with malicious humour.

“Quite true, Inspector Lestrade. Quite true,” Moriarty says lightly. “But enough of these shenanigans. I’d like to see Sherlock now.”

The request isn’t unexpected—not in the least—but nonetheless Sherlock finds himself tensing where he stands. Surprisingly, Donovan does as well.

“Bastard better get used to disappointment,” she says under her breath. Sherlock stares at her in surprise—this unexpected support from an even more unexpected corner—and her cheeks darken.

“We don’t make it a habit of giving into the demands of psychopaths,” she tells him, almost defiantly.

“That won’t be possible,” Lestrade says from the interrogation room, and Sherlock returns his attention to the drama playing out before him. “However, if you’d like to confess, I would be happy to take down your statement.”

“But, DI Lestrade, I have a message for him!” Moriarty exclaims, eyes unnaturally wide with faux distress. “A very _important_ message.”

“You can give it to me then. I’ll pass it along.”

Moriarty’s lips jerk fitfully between anger and hilarity, seemingly unable to settle on an expression. But his gaze doesn’t waver from the disconnected, reptilian watchfulness that Sherlock remembers from their previous meetings.

“I’m afraid that just won’t do, Inspector. That won’t do at all,” Moriarty sighs. “Not to disparage your intelligence, but you’re just not as _special_ as my absolute favourite consulting detective. The message is for his ears only.”

The room is silent but for the creaking of the chair as Moriarty shifts, reminiscent of a little boy trying to get comfortable at a school desk.

Then he giggles, the noise high-pitched and mad. “He’s going to be upset if he doesn’t hear it.” He lowers his lids over his eyes until only two vivid strips of black are visible as he turns his head to peer at the observation room. It seems to Sherlock as though Moriarty is looking directly at him. Smiling.

“Very upset,” Moriarty repeats to the glass window. “It’ll be on your head. Inspector.”

Moriarty’s laugh, once again the full-bellied chuckle of hilarity, accompanies Lestrade’s exit.

**

“He’s mad.” Donovan wastes no time in getting to the point as they reconvene in Lestrade’s office.

“That goes without saying,” Lestrade confirms, still with that small frown on his face. “What do you think?”

He’s asking Sherlock. The detective gratefully tears his mind away from the image of those dark eyes seeking him through the glass and clears his throat. He doesn’t know when it became so dry.

“He’s here for a purpose,” Sherlock answers Lestrade. “He’s not so mad as to toss it all in to no end.”

Donovan and Lestrade exchange a glance, and Sherlock can immediately see the scepticism.

“We can’t afford to ignore the possibility of this being part of a larger plan,” Sherlock says somewhat stiffly. Moriarty is borderline mad—and potentially even more unbalanced than before, if what Sherlock had just observed was not entirely an act—but that is not all that he is.

“Another game?” Lestrade asks carefully. His expression gives nothing away, but Donovan grimaces at the appellation. Sherlock knows the officers’ disgust with referring to the death and destruction caused by Moriarty’s test for Sherlock as such, but he also knows that there’s no better term. To Moriarty, it absolutely was a ‘game,’ and it would be beyond foolish to forget it.

“Without a doubt,” Sherlock answers Lestrade. He pauses for a moment before continuing after a surprisingly difficult internal debate. “I should speak with him.”

“Absolutely not,” Lestrade says immediately. “That’s exactly what he wants, and I have no intention of playing into that bastard’s hands.”

“He won’t talk to anyone else,” Sherlock insists. He’s somewhat proud that he sounds so confident. At the moment, he can think of nothing he’d rather avoid than another interaction with Jim Moriarty. The anticipation and excitement that had been present in their previous encounters is categorically absent in this case, and the reason for the change is equally obvious.

Lestrade refuses to be swayed. “He’ll change his mind when we make it clear we won’t bring you in.”

“The only way to determine what he’s planning is to play along.”

“That’s assuming he’s planning anything at all,” Lestrade replies. His manner, that of a patient parent explaining a concept to an unrelenting child, is surprisingly infuriating.

“I believe I just said it would be dangerous to assume otherwise,” Sherlock says bitingly.

“Sherlock, I’m sorry, but it’s out of my hands. You’re not to talk to him.”

Lestrade is being uncharacteristically vague. “What aren’t you telling me?”

The Inspector shares a quick glance with Donovan. “Interpol has been called. They’re sending an agent. Locard. He’ll be here late tonight.”

Sherlock feels a rush of anger. “You gave away my investigation?!” He doesn’t attempt to temper his aggressive tone, and the two police officers react at once.

“Firstly, Sherlock, it’s not _your_ investigation. At the moment, Moriarty is in the custody of the Metropolitan Police Department, which—I remind you—you _consult_ for at our explicit request.” Lestrade’s voice is frosty, but Sherlock can tell that at least part of the Inspector’s ire is for the situation itself. “Secondly, Jim Moriarty is a person of interest in dozens of major crimes throughout Europe. Interpol requested to be contacted the moment we got any sort of lead on him, and it was decided that they should be invited to take part in the interrogation.”

The use of the passive verb doesn’t escape Sherlock’s notice. “It was decided? By whom?”

Lestrade ignores the question. “Interpol has just as much right to question him as we do. Perhaps more. Several of the crimes on the Continent that he may have been involved in are horrific.”

“He didn’t turn himself in to Interpol. He turned himself in to _me_. And don’t try to correct me,” Sherlock says as Lestrade opens his mouth. “We both know he’s here in London because of me and not because of some particular interest in the Met.”

“Be that as it may,” Lestrade says stubbornly, not debating what they both know to be true, “he’s currently in the Met’s custody, and the Met has decided to bring in Interpol.”

“They’ll muck it up.” Sherlock fears he’s dangerously close to whinging, but there’s a warning bell going off in his head, and he doesn’t know what else to do.

“They’re one of the premiere investigative agencies in the world. They won’t ‘muck it up.’”

It’s only as Lestrade quotes his own phrasing back to him that Sherlock realizes he’s channelled John’s words, and despite the danger, he abruptly—with an intensity that is almost physical—wants his flatmate there.

And then suddenly he is. As though summoned by Sherlock’s abrupt flare of wanting (though in actuality, Sherlock knows, most likely hailed by Lestrade), John appears by Sherlock’s elbow. His face is set and almost cold, but he grabs Sherlock’s elbow as soon as he’s close enough.

“Lestrade, Donovan.” John nods to both of them politely before angling his head to make it clear he’s speaking to Sherlock alone. “Are you alright?”

The police officers both step away (as far as is possible in Lestrade’s cramped office) to give them a modicum of privacy. John and Sherlock are not particularly overt in their new relationship, but neither Lestrade nor Donovan are fools. Both had obviously noticed the evolution from friends to lovers within the first week, though neither officer had acknowledged it openly.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock answers John briefly. Clearly he isn’t injured or in particular emotional distress at the moment, and it’d be better for all involved if John stayed far from the station, despite Sherlock’s desire for his company. Better for John especially. “Why aren’t you at the surgery?”

John lets go of Sherlock’s elbow. “Lestrade called me.” His voice takes on the carefully modulated tone it gets when he’s attempting to tamp down a strong feeling.

Sherlock peers at him. “You’re angry,” he realizes with some surprise.

John hesitates, darting a glance to where Lestrade and Donovan hover a few feet away, both staring at their feet to indicate that they’re not listening to the conversation, despite the fact that they clearly are.

“ _You_ should have called me, Sherlock. Not Lestrade.” John’s voice is slightly hushed. For all that, the tension and anger—controlled as they are—are recognizable.

“Why should I have called you?” Sherlock asks him, attempting to be gentle but ending up sounding slightly robotic. The _last_ thing he wants is John anywhere within a kilometre of Moriarty. He will be torturing Lestrade for this. “He’s in custody and no danger at the moment. You’re not a trained interrogator. There’s not anything you can do to assist at this point.”

John’s jaw is clenched, and Sherlock can see the moment he forces himself to relax it. “You’re half right: I’m not a trained interrogator. But you and I both know that, in custody or not, that man is extremely dangerous.”

Sherlock knows it very well. “He’s handcuffed to a chair and being guarded by no less than three constables.”

“Four,” Lestrade volunteers, before returning his eyes to the floor and shifting a bit from their increasingly personal conversation to face a rather sad potted plant instead.

“This isn’t the time for this,” Sherlock tells John. Again John’s jaw tightens, but he nods.

“We’ll talk later,” John says. The look he levels at Sherlock makes it obvious this is not debatable, and Sherlock wonders briefly when exactly their relationship had reached the point of John expecting Sherlock to meekly nod his head and accept the coming argument.

Sherlock doesn’t nod, meekly or otherwise. Instead he looks at Lestrade, pulling him back into a conversation he never truly departed. “How shall we begin? Did Interpol give any instructions for how they would like us to proceed until their agent arrives?”

Lestrade disregards his waspish tone. “We’re keeping him in the interview room for security reasons and the use of the monitoring equipment. We’re going to leave him there as long as regulations will allow and let him sweat for a bit: try to unbalance him.”

“It won’t work,” Sherlock says at once. It’s true (Moriarty will be just as affected as Sherlock would be by being left alone in an interrogation room, which is to say, not at all), but Lestrade once again ignores him.

“Agent Edmond Locard is Interpol’s top man for all incidents related to Moriarty. He’ll arrive at 11:30 tonight, and Sergeant Donovan will be picking him up. In the meantime, we’re going to compile everything we have on Moriarty to present to Locard when he gets here, along with recommendations on a strategy for questioning him.” Lestrade gives Sherlock a somewhat weary look. “You’re staying?”

The answer is so entirely obvious that Sherlock doesn’t bother to vocalize it. He simply stares back at Lestrade, aware of John just visible out of the corner of his eye watching him with an unreadable expression.

Lestrade sighs. “Alright then. I’ll warn the troops.”

**  
Day 3:

Agent Locard’s flight is delayed, and Donovan’s ire is clear through the phone line as she calls in her update to her superior from a nearby twenty-four hour diner. After several hours of scouring through evidentiary reports and photographs, even Lestrade’s head begins to nod, and the DI steps out to walk through the building in an attempt to rouse himself. Sherlock doesn’t watch him go, so focused on searching for something, _anything_ in the paperwork he may have missed previously (though by this point, he has the vast majority of the reports completely memorized, so the chance of him discovering something new is so slim as to be laughable). John doesn’t watch Lestrade depart either. He’s busy watching Sherlock.

“Stop doing that,” Sherlock says aloud, glancing at his flatmate once before returning his eyes to the report spread out in front of him ( _cause of death attributed to carinocerebral trauma as a result of gunshot wound from a high-velocity weapon_ ).

“Stop doing what?” Despite the grey smudges beneath his eyes, John doesn’t look particularly tired, and his tone is conversational.

“Stop staring at me,” Sherlock says, gesturing toward a second report that John has been holding for the last half an hour. “If you insist on staying and assisting, you could at least try to _assist._ ”

“There’s nothing here we don’t already know,” John replies patiently.

“You can’t possibly know that.”

“Yes, Sherlock, I can. I know because you’ve been over these same reports a dozen times. If there was anything to find, you would have found it weeks ago.” An undercurrent is becoming evident in John’s words, and Sherlock mentally braces for the conversation that John clearly wanted to initiate for the last several hours.

“Let’s take a break,” John suggests, already standing from the uncomfortable office chair and stretching his back. “Wait for that Interpol agent to arrive. Maybe some fresh eyes will help.”

Sherlock doesn’t move. “John, this isn’t some petty thief that one of the constables managed to collar. This is _Moriarty._ ”

John’s placid demeanour fades quickly at Sherlock’s brusque tone, and the tension that Sherlock already knows is there becomes readily apparent. Sherlock doesn’t see this as a victory.

“I _know_ this is Moriarty, Sherlock,” John replies in even, precise tones. “Even if Lestrade hadn’t called me, I would have been able to tell who we’re dealing with from the way you’re acting.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that every time that man’s name is mentioned in your presence, you become completely fixated.”

The seething tangle of frustration and fear that Sherlock has been subsuming under a tide of facts and figures for the last few hours rises into his throat. “My ‘fixation,’ as you call it, is _focus_. It’s a necessary component of my work. I thought you would have been well acquainted with my methods by this point,” he replies stiffly.

“I’ve seen you focused, Sherlock. Many, many times. But that’s not what this is.”

“Then what is ‘this’ exactly? What part of my behaviour has been so aberrant over the last,” Sherlock checks the clock on the wall, “ten hours that you feel the need for a heart-to heart?”

John takes a moment to respond, but it’s a moment he uses to stare at Sherlock with an almost unsettling intensity. “When you see him,” he finally says, slowly, “you don’t see anything else.”

Sherlock scoffs. “I saw him for approximately five minutes eight hours ago. Your observation is logically fallacious.”

There’s a flush rising along the edge of John’s neck, and Sherlock feels a sudden, ill-timed urge to kiss the area, as he had that very morning (a moment which abruptly feels so far away). “You know perfectly well what I’m saying. Stop being purposefully thick-headed.”

“No, I _don’t_ know what you’re saying,” Sherlock snaps, “which is why we’re having this ridiculous conversation to begin with. You appear to be suddenly distressed by an aspect of my work with which you are already well versed.”

The flush has spread to John’s ears, and his glare at Sherlock makes no attempt to hide his anger. “Don’t you dare do that. Don’t you dare pretend that this is just another case, and that he’s just another criminal.”

“I’m not pretending anything,” Sherlock says frostily. Why won’t John _listen_? “But regardless of the crime, the methods for identifying and capturing the perpetrator remain unchanged. Unless you’d rather Moriarty remain uncaught, of course.”

“They’ve already caught him!” John says—not quite a shout but close to it—simultaneously gesturing angrily in the direction of the holding cells.

“He wasn’t _caught_ ,” Sherlock says at an equal volume. “He allowed himself to be taken. Likely because he has planned another game, at the very least.”

“A game.” John’s voice is disgusted. It hurts more than it should. “He’s playing you, Sherlock. He’s been manipulating you ever since you met, and you’re letting him dance you around like a marionette.”

“I _know_ , John.” Sherlock hopes—vindictively—that his exasperation with his flatmate is obvious.

“Oh, of _course_ , you know,” John yells. Actually yells. “The great Sherlock Holmes knows all, after all. Far be it for a me to point out when he’s willingly being led in over his head.”

“What would you have me _do_? How else can I _possibly_ proceed in this situation?” When Sherlock’s voice emerges, it is unexpectedly plaintive. He winces internally at the weakness, but something about it stops John’s anger in its tracks. His flatmate’s face abruptly softens, and Sherlock glances away.

After hours of reports, there’s an invisible claw producing pain somewhere above his eyes, and Moriarty is sitting no more than fifty feet away. Anger, coldly directed and finely focused, is the only emotion that will help him in the current circumstances. Anything else would be a distraction.

“I’m sorry,” John tells him. “I know you’re doing your best. I just-,” he sights, “I hate even the thought of him. Every piece of him is evil and cruel, and I don’t want you anywhere near him.”

“Likewise,” Sherlock responds, abruptly exhausted. After another moment to ensure that his reactions are firmly under his control once again, he risks a glance at John. He looks lovely and vulnerable, dressed in one of his ill-fitting jumpers with his complexion washed pale by the ultra-violet lights of the station.

“You’re more likely to be a target than I am,” Sherlock tells John bluntly. “I think you should leav-“

“Like hell!” John interjects immediately. “And what’s this about me being a target? You’re the one he wants to defeat, Sherlock. Not me.”

“He’ll try to kill you, John.” Saying the words aloud takes more effort than he expects, as though verbalizing the idea lends it power. “Whatever else he has planned for me, at the moment he wants me alive.” ( _To see you taken from me_ ). “As long as Moriarty is here, you’re in danger.”

John’s face is set stubbornly. “We’re all in danger, Sherlock: you, me, Lestrade, all of London. We’ll do better facing it together. No one is going anywhere.”

When Sherlock can do nothing more convincing than stare at John with as pleading an expression as he is capable, his lover relents slightly. “I could be persuaded to leave temporarily for supper. Provided you had some as well.” John raises his eyebrows at Sherlock expectantly, and the detective knows that—for the moment—the discussion is over. He concedes.

“Take a constable with you,” he tells John firmly, and this time it is John who gives in, though he appears far less bothered by his own surrender.

“Fine, I’ll be back in ten minutes,” John replies calmly. “How does curry sound?”

The type of food he’ll be forced to ingest is perhaps the lowest item on Sherlock’s mental priority list, and the look he gives John reflects this.

As it happens, he does enjoy the taste of the saag paneer that John brings him, though—given the reading material he is still scrutinizing as he eats it—it rests like lead in his stomach after only a few bites.

**

Agent Locard arrives as Lestrade is spooning the rest of Sherlock’s rice off of his plate (which John would no doubt have visibly disapproved of, had he not left briefly for the toilet).

He’s a diminutive man—a handbreadth shorter than Donovan—in his fifties, with sad, downward-sloping eyes, a classically handsome nose, and a surprisingly delicate mouth. He doesn’t smile when Lestrade practically flies to his feet at the Agent’s entrance, surreptitiously swiping his hands with a napkin to remove any remnants of curry. Judging by the lines cut deep into his face, Agent Locard rarely smiles.

“DI Lestrade,” Locard says, nodding his head in acknowledgement. The accent is French, the words softly-spoken. Then the man’s discerning eyes land on Sherlock, and clear that there’s very little ‘soft’ about him.

“And you must be Sherlock Holmes.” As during his greeting to the DI, there is no offer of a handshake.

“Yes, I suppose I must,” Sherlock says blandly. Locard has one of those distantly superior stares that he finds almost unbearably irksome. It reminds him of Mycroft.

“I was briefed of your involvement,” Locard says, answering an unasked question. “A photograph was included of both you and Dr Watson along with a description of the injuries you sustained during your previous encounter with Monsieur Moriarty.”

Injuries which had been laughably minor given the danger of the situation Sherlock and John found themselves embroiled in: a few cuts from the shattered windows of their flat along Sherlock’s upper shoulders and rope burn on John’s wrist. As Moriarty emerged permanently scarred, Sherlock felt he could safely be considered the victor of the ‘previous encounter.’

But what he’s much more concerned about currently is the present encounter.

“Excellent to know you’re up to speed,” Sherlock tells Locard briskly. “We’ll need to question him as soon as possible. Preferably immediately.” Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock sees Lestrade wince.

“I’m afraid that will not be possible, Mr Holmes,” the Interpol Agent replies, unperturbed. And why Moriarty is bestowed the appellation ‘Monsieur’ while Sherlock—who considers himself a quarter French through his grandmother’s lineage—is referred to as ‘Mister,’ Sherlock is at a loss to determine, but it makes him want to clench his teeth.

“Before we proceed, I must first hear the story of your meeting with Monsieur Moriarty from your own lips, and the lips of your Dr Watson and Inspector Lestrade,” Locard continues. “Anything less would be rash.” Sherlock senses censure in the words and opens his mouth for a scathing response.

“We’ve been preparing for your arrival by compiling a profile on Moriarty we believe will be helpful in questioning him,” Lestrade breaks in hurriedly.

“Excellent,” the little agent says to the DI. He is still unsmiling, but there is an almost unperceivable relaxing of his manner. “Then let us begin. I would speak with you first, Mr Holmes, followed by Dr Watson,” he adds, nodding to where John has just re-joined them from the hallway. “You will, of course, be entirely truthful in your recounting.” And with that final, infuriating statement, Locard strides purposefully down the hallway, apparently well enough acquainted with the layouts of Europe’s police stations to intuit the location of the interview rooms.

John is still standing near the doorway, blinking in confusion at Sherlock’s scowl. “Did I miss something?”

Irksome. Entirely irksome.

**

Despite Sherlock’s annoyance, Locard proves to be an extremely competent interrogator. He takes first Sherlock and then John moment by moment through their initial and subsequent meetings with James Moriarty.

No, they had no inkling of his existence prior to the allusion of the murderous cabbie some months ago.

No, they do not have any knowledge of the identities or locations of any of Moriarty’s agents.

 _Yes_ , they are telling him everything of importance.

It is an unpleasant experience, not in the least because of the tense and discomforting memories it evokes of the events six weeks previously. Despite the fortuitous conclusion of the incident (joyous, in some aspects, Sherlock thinks when he remembers the moment his friendship with John became so much more), it is not a period Sherlock enjoys dwelling on.

It also takes approximately four hours to complete, and by the time Locard releases them from the interview room back to Lestrade’s office, the sun is well on its way to its highest point.

Donovan is sipping coffee and rather daintily dismantling a croissant at Lestrade’s desk when Sherlock re-enters the office after his second hour-long interview with Locard. There’s no sign of John.

He throws himself into the chair across from her and looks pointedly at her breakfast. “Highly productive use of your time, Sergeant.”

She glares at him, but its venom is less than he has come to expect, which Sherlock attributes to lack of sleep.

“I spent six hours circling bloody Heathrow, so don’t you talk to me about productivity,” she tells him, voice slightly raspy.

Sherlock waves off her complaint. “Where are the others?”

Donovan smirks at him. “ _John_ said smelling my coffee was torture and went off to fetch some for the both of you. Inspector Lestrade is in a meeting with the Detective Chief Superintendent. He should be back any minute,” she adds.

And indeed, it is at that exact moment that Lestrade returns—running—to the office.

He’s pale, with sweat visible along his hairline from what was no doubt a full sprint to reach them. He’s breathing hard, and his eyes…His eyes are-

“What is it? What’s happened?” Donovan demands, jumping to her feet. Sherlock finds himself rising as well, buoyed by the anxiety he sees writ across Lestrade’s face.

“There’s been an attack,” Lestrade says between gasps. His voice is applaudingly steady, but his distress is so obvious as to be almost palpable.

“Where? When?” Sherlock demands.

“How many casualties?” Donovan asks at the same moment.

“One. Only one, thank God, but only because we were lucky. It could have been so much worse.”

“Lestrade, what _happened_?” Sherlock is moments away from shaking the man. He has never seen Lestrade so entirely unnerved, and it causes something in his own stomach to twist.

The Inspector clears his throat and takes a moment to collect himself, obviously realising that his demeanour is less than helpful. “At five o’clock this morning, a device hidden at the Gelder and Company warehouse released some type of chemical. A night security guard was killed and three of the first responders on the scene—two paramedics and an officer—are suffering neurological effects. They’re in hospital.”

Clearly that’s not the entirety of the story, or else Lestrade wouldn’t be so obviously avoiding eye contact with Sherlock.

“And?” Sherlock finally grates out after the Inspector falls silent.

Lestrade’s face is worn and grey, but he meets Sherlock’s gaze without flinching. “There was a note at the scene. Addressed to you.”

Sherlock thinks he should feel something overwhelming—anger, perhaps? or fear—but the stress of the previous twelve hours has left him numb. He issues no response, though Lestrade looks as though he is expecting one.

“What did it say?” Donovan asks.

Lestrade doesn’t answer save giving his Sergeant a quelling look. And it doesn’t truly matter (“Shall we dance?” “Ready for the second act?” “A special gift just for you.”). Sherlock knows who wrote it, and that is all he needs to know.

“I believe we will be well served to ask Monsieur Moriarty about this event,” Locard says from where he stands in the office doorway. Sherlock had not seen him return. John stands just behind him—face drawn and eyes on Sherlock—with a white paper bag and a cardboard tray with two steaming drinks held in his hands.

The drinks go cold, but no one notices.


	3. Chapter 3

“You can’t be serious,” Sherlock says, punctuating the words with a large, expressive gesture to illustrate exactly how ungrounded from reality he finds Locard’s strategy to be.

“I am quite serious,” Locard replies evenly, not even lifting his eyes from the report he’s flipping through. They have adopted Lestrade’s office as their impromptu base of operations, and the room is stuffed full of bodies, case files, and borrowed chairs. The agent is frowning, and the harsh lights of the room etch the lines deeply into his face. “You will not be speaking with Monsieur Moriarty at this time.”

“Locard, you don’t know what sort of man you’re dealing with,” Sherlock tells him, injecting as much urgency into his voice as he is able. It isn’t difficult. “You have to allow me to question him.”

“On the contrary, I know exactly what Monsieur Moriarty is,” Locard replies a touch bitingly, which is at least a nice change from his standard monotone. “He fancies himself a maestro leading this department in a symphony that he is conducting.”

Which is an entirely true and discerning statement, but it does nothing to actually address the problem at hand.

Sherlock looks to the others in the room for support, but no one will meet his gaze, save John, who only stares back with a set expression, clearly in support of Sherlock remaining as far from Moriarty as possible.

“We don’t know if he has planned a second attack. We don’t even know what type of chemical was used,” Sherlock points out testily. It’s one of the most galling aspects of the situation thus far: the substance that had killed the guard and critically injured those trying to help him had dissipated before a sample could be collected. “It is extremely likely that he has more of it.”

“I am aware of the risk he poses,” Locard says. “I am also aware that to do what he wants, to play the part he has planned for us, would be the height of foolishness.”

Sherlock’s frustration erupts coldly, funnelled into a razor sharp spear of ice in his chest that finds outlet in his voice. “No. The ‘height of foolishness’ is you refusing to do what needs to be done. Unless you don’t care that more people may die?” Sherlock questions frigidly. “Are Moriarty’s future victims an acceptable loss to you so long as you have the opportunity to impose whatever control you can on the situation?”

“Of course I care-“ Locard begins before Lestrade breaks into the argument.

“We’ll try it,” the DI says, speaking over the both of them. Consequently, his voice is almost at a shout.

“The best thing we can do here is be unexpected, right?” he adds at a lower volume when Sherlock opens his mouth to protest anew. “If we need to bring you in, we already have you here. Okay?”

It’s certainly not ‘okay,’ but Sherlock stifles the response that comes to his lips. Setting someone else—anyone else—to talking with Moriarty is a hopeless enterprise, but Sherlock himself may glean some information through observing the exchange.

“Wonderful,” Locard says, voice dry, when Sherlock remains silent. “Then if Dr Watson would be so good as to accompany me?”

 _No!_ “Absolutely not!” Sherlock says immediately. “Lestrade, you have some modicum of intellect. Clearly you see the madness of putting them in the same room together.”

He does not find the ally he was hoping for. “The entire point of this is to unbalance him. I can’t think of a better person to do that than Dr Watson.” Lestrade’s voice holds an undercurrent of subtext, and for the first time, Sherlock curses the Inspector’s tacit knowledge of Sherlock and John’s new relationship.

“Sherlock, it’ll be alright,” John pipes up from where he sits at Lestrade’s desk.

Sherlock notes somewhat distantly that his heart rate is picking up. That same maxim— _keep John away, keep John safe_ —is rising up in his mind once again, surfacing from its shallow and entirely temporary burial.

“I don’t even know how many security cameras and guards we have monitoring him now,” Lestrade adds in a tone that Sherlock recognizes as ‘soothing.’ Intolerable. “Nothing is going to happen.”

“Lestrade, I highly doubt-,“ Sherlock begins.

“Oh, for God’s sake, keep it together, freak! This is _police_ work, and you’re acting like a Victorian lady about to swoon from overstimulation.” Donovan: angry and belittling. Surprisingly, her scathing comment cuts through the chorus of worried scenarios running through Sherlock’s mind. They quiet, for the moment.

He scowls at her, and she smirks in return from where she is leaning casually against the wall.

“Then it is settled. Dr Watson, with me. The rest may watch,” Locard says, once again unperturbed. “Let us go, now.”

They go.

**

Despite the distraction provided by Donovan’s well-timed insult, Sherlock is practically vibrating with suppressed nervous energy as he crams into the small observation room with Lestrade and the Sergeant. Judging by their sideways glances, they do not appreciate this, but Sherlock only has eyes from what’s occurring beyond the glass.

When Locard walks into the room, Moriarty glances up briefly with a look of supreme indifference from where he has been intently scratching with his fingernails at the table’s surface.

When John follows the agent, Moriarty’s expression goes entirely blank, but not before Sherlock sees a flash of something across his enemy’s face.

Hate. And something not dissimilar from avarice.

“Good afternoon, Monsieur,” Locard begins, settling himself into a chair across from the prisoner while John stands at his shoulder. “I am Agent Locard. I come from the Interpol office in Lyons. You know of us, I assume?”

“Well, isn’t this a surprise,” Moriarty drawls, addressing John rather than Locard. “An unexpected _pleasure_ , really. And here I didn’t think you were ever let off your lead.”

“We certainly know of you,” Locard continues, undaunted by the lack of response. “You are wanted for questioning in regards to dozens of crimes and for prosecution in seven separate incidents on the European continent. Did you know that?”

“Eight,” Moriarty corrects, bright eyes still trained on John, who is standing ramrod straight and still. Sherlock wishes he could see John’s face, but the set-up of the room has left him facing his lover’s back. “That’s impressive, isn’t it? I do try to impress, after all. I don’t have to tell you how much work it is, maintaining such a _prolific_ portfolio, but I like to think it’s worth it. I enjoy winning, particularly when the prize is so delectable,” he adds, leering meaningfully up at John.

“You can go to hell,” John says, and his voice is as cold as Sherlock has ever heard it.

“Mmm,” Moriarty hums as he rakes his eyes up and down John’s form. Sherlock has no doubt he misses nothing. “On that note, how is our dear Sherlock? Eating properly, I hope?” John’s fingers tighten on the back of Locard’s chair. Sherlock is certain Moriarty doesn’t miss that either.

“Monsieur,” Locard says, breaking the stand-off between the two men, “earlier this morning a device containing an unknown toxin exploded. A man was killed.”

“Oh?” Moriarty questions, turning his eyes at last to the Interpol agent. His face is alight with mischief. “How very tragic. Have you managed to suss out the fiend responsible?”

“According to a note left at the scene, you are the one to blame.”

Moriarty casts his gaze up to the ceiling in pretence of recollection. “I _did_ do that, didn’t I? How silly of me to let it slip my mind.”

“Were you acting alone?”

Clearly already bored of the interview, Moriarty’s eyes drift again to John. “It was a gift for Sherlock, of course. Did he like it? Tell me _exactly_ what his face looked like when he got my note.”

“He didn’t read it,” John says. It sounds as though he’s speaking between gritted teeth. “And he doesn’t like your ‘gifts.’ Why can’t you just leave him alone?”

“Oh dear,” Moriarty replies tonelessly. “That _is_ disappointing. But, no matter. There are plenty of opportunities left for him to enjoy my,” an exhalation of breath, “attentions.”

“You bastar-“ John begins, leaning forward as though to strike him.

“What is meant by other ‘opportunities?’” Locard cuts John off both verbally and physically, placing a restraining hand on his arm. His voice is as taut as a wire, and Moriarty switches his attention back to the agent at the show of discomposure. “Are there other devices?”

Moriarty grins widely. “Uh uh. That would be telling. And, to be frank, I just don’t _like_ you much.” He leans back in the chair and laces his fingers together behind his dark, spiky hair. “So run along, and be so kind as to send in my favourite playmate. _There’s_ a good chap.”

Locard doesn’t move, though John shifts again, shoulders still exceedingly tense. “Monsieur, you do not appear to appreciate the situation you are in. You will not be leaving my custody, and you will spend the rest of your life in prison. The only way to bring some comfort to your future is to help us here and now.”

Moriarty’s face drops the mask of joviality with a suddenness that is chilling, leaving him entirely expressionless. “No, Monsieur Locard, _you_ do not appear to appreciate the situation _you_ are in. The first of my little presents for Sherlock was the opening sonata. A taste of what is to come.” His voice drops to a malicious whisper. “The later movements will be so, so much more volatile.”

“You will find I do not respond well to threats, Monsieur,” Locard replies calmly.

Moriarty bares his teeth in a parody of a grin. “And you’ll find that I am not someone to take lightly,” he replies in perfect French.

He begins to scratch again at the table’s surface, signalling an end to the conversation. “Don’t come back,” Moriarty says in English. “The only person I want to see is Sherlock—and I do mean _only_ Sherlock—and if I don’t get to see him…well…let’s _hope_ it doesn’t come to that. You have twelve hours.”

He doesn’t speak again.

**

Sherlock pounces on the Interpol Agent as soon as he re-enters the hallway. Lestrade and Donovan are quick to follow, and Sherlock has the momentary, unpleasant suspicion that they have an agreement not to allow him to be alone.

“You have to let me talk to him,” Sherlock tells Locard urgently. “Immediately. Before something else happens and more people die.”

Locard’s face is as composed as ever, but the meeting with Moriarty must have made an impact, because he simply replies, “I agree.”

“If you don’t let-. Oh. Well,” Sherlock is brought up short by the sudden and surprising agreement. “I’m glad you think so.” Locard is looking at him in a strangely considering way, eyebrows drawn low as he scrutinizes the detective.

“Well, I’m not.” John, the lines around his mouth deep and furious as he catches up to them. His leg appears to be bothering him, and his right hand is clenching fitfully, as though grasping for the cane he no longer carries. “Don’t I get a vote here?”

“John,” Sherlock says in a low voice, “I have to do this. Do you understand? I have to stop him.”

“I do understand that, Sherlock,” John replies, voice equally quiet. “What I don’t understand is why you have to come running when he snaps his fingers, and why the rest of you,” here he gestures to the two Met officers and the Interpol agent, “are so willing to let him go.”

“I can see you are upset, Dr Watson,” Locard says calmly. “But there is little choice. I also do not like the situation, but I do not see how else we can proceed. Not with the time constraints that were given.”

John glares at the Agent stubbornly. “You said it yourself: playing his game would be beyond foolish. Why would we want to play into his hands?”

Locard’s face is unreadable, his speech precise and noncommittal. “After meeting Monsieur Moriarty in person, I have revised my opinion. I believe that allowing Mr Holmes to meet with him is the best option.”

“The best option for _what_?” John asks, gesticulating angrily. “The best option to get him hurt? There has to be another way!”

Locard remains unperturbed in the face of John’s ire. “Even with every man at the Met’s disposal searching London for other devices that may be hidden here, we could not be assured of finding them all. We must have their locations from Monsieur Moriarty.” He looks at John keenly. “I believe that your friend is up to the challenge. Do you doubt him?”

“Never! What I _doubt_ is his personal sense of self-preservation and the police’s interests in keeping him safe and well!”

“What exactly are you-“, “Oi!” Lestrade and Donovan’s protests are drowned out by Sherlock’s uncharacteristic shout. “John, this isn’t helping!”

All at once, everyone is looking at him. “John,” Sherlock continues at a lower volume, as calmly as he is able, “I have to do this. Do you understand? I _have_ to.”

The police officers step down the hall—leading the Interpol agent with them—when it becomes apparent the conversation has moved into a more personal sphere, and Sherlock steps closer to his lover. Sherlock learned early in their acquaintance that if he maintained his gaze upon John, his friend would grant his words more weight, as though eye contact somehow implies greater truth or earnestness on the part of the speaker. He doesn’t take advantage of this as often as he might, but he uses it now, staring intently into the blue eyes.

“People are in danger, and I have to do my part to save them. You taught me that.”

“Why are you choosing now of all times to be noble?” If John were not of such a stoic personality, Sherlock is certain he would look miserable. As it is, his mouth—so often in an endearing half smile—is wrenched down in an expression akin to pain.

“I’m surrounded by good examples,” Sherlock says, gently reaching out to touch his friend’s shoulder and wanting to do so much more. “Something had to rub off eventually.” John makes an attempt at a smile, but it doesn’t quite come off, and after a moment, he abandons the expression with a resigned sigh.

“I don’t like this,” John tells him seriously. “I have a bad feeling it’s all going to go spectacularly wrong.”

John’s expression—mournful, as though the worst has already come to pass—is almost impossible for Sherlock to look upon, and he wants nothing more than to take them both away from there. Take them somewhere safe.

He doesn’t. He learned long ago that safety is an illusion, and that ‘away’ is never far enough to make one bit of difference.

**  
When Sherlock walks into the small interrogation room, Moriarty sits up like a hunting dog sighting its target ( _like a magnet brought within range of its opposite pole_ ), eyes tracking ceaselessly over the detective’s form as he takes in those same telling details that Sherlock himself is so adept at reading.

Sherlock pauses in the doorway while from the hallway Locard gestures the uniformed guard out of the room, and Moriarty takes an obvious moment to look his fill. Then the door closes, and they are alone.

They aren’t truly _alone_ , of course. The observation room just beyond the glass is no doubt fit to burst with the number of individuals jammed inside its confines to watch the ensuing conversation. Agent Locard had felt that granting them even the illusion of privacy would perhaps make Moriarty more loquacious. Sherlock doesn’t necessarily agree, but he did allow that it was unlikely to hurt.

Whatever Moriarty is planning, it seems clear that for the moment a physical attack is less likely than a psychological one.

As Sherlock moves to sit in the room’s second chair, the other man’s eyelids lower lazily until he is peering at the detective through the dark barbs of his eyelashes. He appears to be fighting a smile.

“Hello, dearest!” Moriarty begins cheerily. “Did you miss me?”

“Hardly,” Sherlock replies drily, sitting down with an ease he does not truly feel.

“Oh, you _wound_ me. And after I came all this way to see you.”

“You’re right, that was callous of me. Where did you travel from exactly? Asia? Eastern Europe, perhaps?” He keeps his eyes trained on Moriarty’s face—looking for a reaction, though not truly expecting one—but the other man simply smiles.

“You truly are a delightful creature,” Moriarty says fondly. “Even when you’re being entirely infuriating.”

“I would return the compliment, but I never find you delightful,” Sherlock replies. “Particularly given the current circumstance.”

“The harsh lighting of this room isn’t flattering, I’ll give you that.”

“I’m referring more to the lethal chemical you deployed,” Sherlock corrects.

Moriarty looks completely blank for a tic before comprehension appears to dawn. It is flawlessly performed, and for a moment Sherlock wonders if perhaps the other man had truly forgotten whatever plan he had set in motion. He certainly appears more unbalanced than the last time they had met.

Not that Sherlock intends to trust anything that Moriarty presents to him: appearance or otherwise.

“Ah yes, my little present,” Moriarty breathes. “It’s lovely, isn’t it?”

“That’s not the word I would choose.”

“Two binary agents,” Moriarty goes on as though Sherlock hadn’t spoken. “Two chemicals that are entirely stable on their own, but mix them together and _BOOM_!“

Moriarty jumps to his feet at the final word, his action violent enough that it upends the chair he was sitting in.

Sherlock finds himself on his own feet—an automatic reaction to the other’s sudden movement—and a step or two closer to the observation glass. He can hear muffled shouting from inside. No doubt those present are arguing over whether or not to intervene.

But Moriarty is simply continuing to stand behind the table, watching Sherlock with amusement, and—not to be outdone by this man above all others—Sherlock returns to the table and sits, fiercely commanding his breathing and heart rate to slow.

Moriarty follows suit a moment later, gently picking up the chair with his bound hands and making a show of dusting it off, before settling himself slowly into it. He pins Sherlock with eyes bright as a carrion bird’s.

“It’s like a poem, just for you. I really thought you’d like it,” Moriarty says intimately, voice so low as to almost be a whisper.

Sherlock’s mouth is dry. “Are there more devices?”

“Of _course_ there are more!” Moriarty answers loudly with a sudden, wide grin. “It wouldn’t be any _fun_ otherwise.”

“How many more?”

“Three,” Moriarty says, smiling dreamily. “It’s always three, isn’t it? When building drama? Three acts. Three _wishes_.”

“Five pips?”

“Well, I didn’t say it was a hard and fast rule. And I suppose really there are four, if you count the first one.” He leans toward Sherlock, smiling with overt familiarly. “Although in that case, I merely wanted to get your attention. I’m so _happy_ I succeeded.”

“Then let’s get on with it,” Sherlock says, suddenly impatient. “Tell me whatever it is you want me to know, and let me get to work. I’m tired of wasting time with you.”

Rather than being offended (or pretending to be), Moriarty’s face shifts into that knowing look he seems to favour when interacting with Sherlock: as though he alone is capable of sussing out Sherlock’s true motivations; his most private and secreted self.

“Oh, but Sherlock,” Moriarty says, eyes wide and wet as he lifts his hands under his chin in a melodramatic gesture of slighted feelings. “I thought you _liked_ my presents. I worked so hard on them, after all. And I did it all for you.” Sherlock glowers at the performance, unimpressed.

“But you are also correct,” the criminal continues. “A bomb is only, ahh, _entertaining_ when it destroys. Otherwise it’s just an inert mass of metal and chemicals. Hardly worth any attention at all.” Again, that same knowing look, as though Sherlock may have missed the metaphor.

“And as much as I enjoy your company—and I do, my dear, I truly do—patience has never been a virtue of mine. So, by all means, let’s ‘get on with it.’”

Moriarty leans back in his chair, eyes riveted on Sherlock’s face with unsettling, if familiar, intensity.

“Well?” Sherlock prompts to hide his discomfort with the attention. No one in his life, including John and his brother, watches him with Moriarty’s single-minded focus. It is both disturbing and, though he doesn’t like to admit it to himself, somewhat flattering.

Moriarty smiles indulgently, as though picking up on the thought, and for a moment Sherlock castigates himself at the ridiculous fancy: whatever else Moriarty is—brilliant, mad, exciting, horrifying—he is not a mind reader.

“Reginald Musgrave,” Moriarty says, suddenly it seems, in the silence.

Sherlock blinks at him, caught out of his own thoughts and cursing himself for his distraction, as momentary as it was. “Reginald Musgrave,” he echoes the other man. Moriarty beams at him as though praising a particularly apt pupil. “Is that all?” Sherlock asks, already running the name through his memory to see if it plucks a thread.

Moriarty arches an eyebrow. “Isn’t that enough? It’s not a particularly _hard_ one, Sherlock.” Again, the wide grin on a mouth full of sharp, wet teeth. “But if you’re looking for a reason to stay in my company, all you have to do is ask, my dear. You must know you’d never be unwelcome.”

Moriarty isn’t looking at Sherlock as he says this, instead staring past him to the observation glass with a malicious smile, and the breath snags in Sherlock’s throat. He had, against all reason, forgotten their audience. “I find that hard to believe,” he replies calmly. “Given the physical effects on your person the last time I rejected your offer of company.” He gestures to his own face to illustrate the effect to which he is referring.

Quick as a striking snake, Moriarty wrenches forward with his arm extended as though to touch Sherlock’s unmarred cheek, stopping just before making contact. Surprised and unnerved, Sherlock recoils back in his chair.

“Well, the course of true love never did run smooth,” Moriarty says with mocking smile. He sits slowly back in his chair, glancing at the clock as he does so. “As much as I treasure our conversations, you really should get started, my dear. I’d hate for you to become so distracted by my presence that you miss out on your own party. You have twenty-two hours left.” Twenty-two hours. Noon again.

“I’m not distracted,” Sherlock denies immediately.

“Hmm?” Moriarty gives him a sly look. “How _disappointing_. I’ll have to work on that. But don’t worry, sweet. I’ll be here when you get back.”

He settles more firmly into his chair as Sherlock stands to leave. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says with unexpectedly serious finality.

**

‘Reginald Musgrave’ proves to be as clear a lead as Moriarty implied: a local eccentric seemingly known for his wealth and propensity for hapless accidents, a search of the database reveals that Musgrave had listed one of his staff, Richard Brunton, missing three days previously. Given the timing of the report, Sherlock highly doubts the disappearance is a coincidence.

Musgrave meets them at his estate as they alight from the police car, the bomb unit trailing behind them in its entirety with lights flashing frenetically in the fading light of the evening.

“I say,” Musgrave murmurs in astonishment, eyes wide behind wire frames too narrow for his already thin face. He’s a tall man, and off-puttingly gawky with his overly long limbs.

“Mr Musgrave?” Locard asks, effortlessly assuming the lead as they approach. Musgrave’s estate, a particularly ostentatious example of feudal architecture festooned by grey arches and mullioned windows, competes with the gathering of police cars for domination of the landscape.

At the affirmative response, the Interpol Agent smiles gently at the homeowner, an expression that transforms his face to a surprising degree. “Please excuse the disarray. I am Agent Locard of Interpol. These other gentlemen and ladies are with the Metropolitan Police Service. We believe there may be some threat on your property-,”

“Some of us, at any rate,” Sherlock interjects sourly. Moriarty would never be so obvious. From where she stands behind him, Donovan elbows him discreetly in the kidney.

“It is likely that the threat will prove ungrounded,” Locard continues, as though Sherlock had not spoken. “We have brought many assistants to finish the search as quickly as possible, with your permission, of course?”

Musgrave—eyes still overly-wide and flitting over the activity taking place in front of his residence—nods distractedly. Lestrade takes this as permission granted and moves off with Donovan at his side, snapping orders that the constables are quick to follow.

As the police approach the house—waving out the various members of Musgrave’s household staff that emerge—Locard gently grips Musgrave’s elbow. The man startles at the unexpected touch, staring down at the much shorter Interpol Agent as though he has only just realized he is there.

Locard smiles at him confidently. “They will finish shortly. In the meantime, if you would be so kind as to join my colleagues and myself for a short conversation over tea, we will soon have this sorted.”

Musgrave looks automatically at John and Sherlock when Locard gestures to them, and John forces a tired smile that comes nowhere near his eyes. Sherlock doesn’t bother to respond at all. Musgrave does not look reassured, but he also does not look inclined to protest.

“Why-” Musgrave clears his throat. His voice is reedy and surprisingly high, though Sherlock decides this is its typical tenor rather than a by-product of the man’s surprise. “Why do you need to talk to me?” He is beginning to look nervous now that the shock is dissipating, a typical response to an unexpected police presence at one’s residence, Sherlock finds.

Locard uses his light grip on Musgrave’s elbow to lead him away from the house. The man stumbles as he walks, obviously terrified of adjusting his arm to a less awkward angle lest it be interpreted as resistance. “We have some questions on your missing man. Richard Brunton?” Sherlock is quietly pleased at this evidence that Locard, too, has discerned the likely importance of the missing man. Working with him has not been as tiresome as Sherlock initially feared.

“Brunton?!” Musgrave pulls up short when it becomes clear he is not the one under investigation, his cheeks flushed with surprise and consternation. “Have you found him, then? Have you found my treasure map?”

As one, they turn and stare at him.

**

They learn much in the two hours they spend waiting for the bomb unit to finish sweeping the house, gathered in a huddle and using the boot of one of the cars as an impromptu table for the tepid tea poured from a thermos that Locard unearths from somewhere. No explosives are detected, as Sherlock had expected. Nor is Richard Brunton.

“He’s, well, he’s my handyman,” Musgrave explains, sipping at the tea. “Or was, anyway. Responsible for fixing the roof, moving furniture. That sort of thing.”

Locard has presumably used up the entirety of his ability in personal interaction, because John is the only one of the three to nod at the man encouragingly to continue.

“One week ago, just about exactly, I found him in my library after dark.”

“That was an unusual occurrence?” Locard asks.

“Quite,” Musgrave readily agrees. “All of my day staff know that I prefer them out of the house by dark. I never had any trouble with Brunton before that.”

“And what was Mr Brunton doing when you found him?”

“Earlier that day, he carried in a large decorative chest at my request. A gift from a friend,” Musgrave explains, rather inanely. “I was awake later than is usual for me—reading, you know—when I heard a strange sound coming from the library. I thought perhaps an animal had managed to get in through a window, since the house was completely dark, but when I went inside to check, I found Brunton instead. He was crouched down by the chest.” The man stoops to demonstrate, holding his hands in front of him in an awkward pantomime. “He was reading something.”

“What?” John prompts, when Musgrave pauses for what Sherlock can only assume is dramatic effect.

“That’s what I asked!” Musgrave replies excitedly. “I said, ‘what do you have there, Brunton?’ Well, first I asked him what he was doing in my library in the dark, but I’m certain it was my second question.”

“How did he respond?” Locard asks, resuming control of the interview.

Musgrave shrugs. “He said he had forgotten something and come back for it or something along those lines. I knew he was lying, of course. He didn’t have any of his things with him, not even his coat.”

“What did he say about what he was reading?” John asks, a touch impatiently, though Sherlock doubts Musgrave would be able to tell.

“I could tell that whatever it was, it had come from the trunk. That was obvious immediately, but he tried to deny it. Said that he had found it. ‘Found it where?’ I asked him. ‘In my attic,’ he said. The man doesn’t even have an attic!”

“What _exactly_ was he reading?” Sherlock asks. He is quite prepared to slap the man. John must notice, because he steps casually between them.

“A map!” Musgrave’s excitement is obvious as he flails, accidentally splashing some tea on John’s shoe. The doctor—polite to a fault—pretends not to notice.

“A map of where?”

“I’m...not sure,” Musgrave admits.

“And yet you believe it to be a treasure map”? Locard asks.

“It seemed plausible at the time,” Musgrave says, flushing slightly. “I suppose it might not be. At any rate, it was quite old. And it had a riddle written on it as well.”

Locard’s eyes go wryly resigned with the knowledge that more information needs to be extracted from the man in front of them. “What type of riddle?”

“Well, the usual sort, I suppose,” Musgrave replies, looking at the agent in confusion.

“Mr Musgrave, what happened to the map?” John interjects.

“Ah, I took it from him—Brunton that is—and locked it up in my desk. But a few days later it was missing, along with Brunton.”

“And you believe Bruton stole it?”

“Well, of course. What else could have happened to it?”

Sherlock rubs at his temples briefly. “Do you remember what the map looked like? Or what the riddle said?”

Musgrave laughs. “No, of course not. I’ve no head for details.”

As John and Sherlock exchange subtly commiserating glances with one another, he goes on. “Though I did make a scan of it. Will that help?”


	4. Chapter 4

Donovan squints when she’s thinking, a characteristic Sherlock has not made note of before now.

Eyes screwed up in concentration, the Sergeant frowns thunderously at the map and associated text, now blown up as large as the station’s printer could manage and mounted on the wall of Lestrade’s office.

Sherlock doesn’t bother to follow her gaze. He’d memorized the damned thing hours ago.

 _Where was the sun?  
Over the oak.  
Where was the shadow?  
Under the elm.  
How was it stepped?  
North by ten and by ten,  
East by five and by five,  
South by two and by two,  
West by one and by one._

 _And so under._

It is an irritatingly simplistic puzzle, obviously referencing a specific location from which the reader is meant to walk a certain number of paces in each of the cardinal directions. But given the non-specific nature of the first four lines, there is nothing to direct them to a starting place. Sherlock has run countless code-breaking algorithms with various words as the key (including, in one desperate attempt, his own name), but to no avail. If the riddle does conceal a cipher, it is not one he has been able to crack.

The map by itself is useless: a roughly drawn rectangle with few markings to distinguish it (an “x” here and there, a circle in the southeast corner), it could apply to any number of locations. No, the answer—Sherlock is certain—lies in the riddle.

Sherlock clenches his hands. They’re itching to vent his frustration in an uncharacteristically physical way—preferably on the riddle’s author—and he for one has no doubt of who wrote the hateful thing: the absurdly dramatic bent could only be the product one man, and he’s certain that a forensic analysis of the original once it is found will prove it to be a very recent creation.

Though ripping the paper itself to shreds would be at least partially satisfying. He is beginning to feel that it is mocking him.

Donovan sighs. “I bloody hate riddles.”

Sherlock is inclined to agree with her, which is an alarming enough occurrence that he is compelled to jump to his feet and take a walk about the room to clear his head. For the moment, there is a decent amount of space to pace in, as Locard is briefing Interpol of their progress and Lestrade has not returned from collecting Brunton’s phone and credit card records.

“Why did he pick Musgrave, do you think?” John asks from where he sits thumbing through a file. “Moriarty, I mean,” he clarifies, as though they might not know to whom he is referring. “Do you think their paths crossed somewhere before?”

“It’s possible. _If_ Musgrave is the target,” Sherlock interjects. “We don’t know who the next attack is meant for.” Fourteen hours remaining, his mind notes unhelpfully.

Donovan snorts. “What, you think this is about Brunton? Of course Musgrave is the target. Don’t make this more complicated than it needs to be.”

“It’s complicated enough without my help. Why are you so certain Musgrave is the intended victim? Because he’s rich? That’s very classist of you.”

“Because the psycho in there gave us his name, and the confounded map was found in his house!” she snaps. “How could Moriarty possibly have known that Brunton would see it first? No, Moriarty is the ‘friend’ that sent Musgrave the trunk; or maybe he had the map put there later, I don’t know. Then Brunton found it, thought he could turn it to his advantage, and disappeared with it.”

“You believe he left under his own accord?” Sherlock asks her, raising an eyebrow.

The police have not had the time for a careful search of Brunton’s lodgings—a small cottage a short bus ride from the Musgrave manor house—and a quick examination of the man’s belongings had yielded nothing beyond the implication that his departure had been unplanned (the uneaten meal congealing in his kitchen had been a particularly convincing, if odorous, piece of evidence).

Lestrade, at Locard’s request, ordered all of the items marked as evidence and carted off for analysis, but Sherlock has little hope the technicians will discover anything helpful in the next four hours. He also obtained authorization to track Brunton’s credit cards, should they be used in the near future.

Sherlock does not expect them to be. He is ninety per cent certain that Brunton is dead and has been since his disappearance.

“I’m saying we shouldn’t jump to ‘murder’ when we can’t immediately locate someone,” Donovan replies, turning back to the report in front of her to signal the end of the conversation. “The world isn’t that dark.”

“Parts of it are,” Sherlock disagrees, but she doesn’t answer, and he lets the debate lie.

An investigation into Richard Brunton’s past has not been particularly illuminating, though there is no shortage of records from which to extract details to add depth and colour to the bare sketch of a man revealed in Musgrave’s description.

Born in Bristol, Brunton joined the Regular Army at the age of twenty-five after a brief stint as a failed butcher. He spent several years as a Sapper—travelling extensively while also being fortunate enough to avoid direct combat—before an injury to his knee ended his military career. Relocating to London, he then found unsteady employment as a handyman, taking the more stable position with Musgrave six months before his disappearance.

He has a mother and sister still living in Bristol (Locard checked with the Constables in the area in the hope that Brunton may have been in recent contact with them, to no avail). Per his neighbours, he also has an occasional girlfriend—Rachel Howells—who has been visiting her sister in Manchester for the last three weeks. The Constables there were equally unable to provide any information on Brunton’s current location.

Again, Sherlock finds this entirely unsurprising. He is certain that if there is a solution, it will be found in the riddle that Moriarty orchestrated for them and which Brunton presumably stumbled upon.

It’s on Sherlock’s second loop about the room—his frustration nowhere even close to being spent—that his brother calls.

“I just learned from my assistant that you’ve requested a security detail be attached to the Duke of Holdernesse. In Turkey.”

“Not a good time, Mycroft,” Sherlock replies crisply, whirling around to continue his circuit.

“Yes, my assistant imparted that bit of intelligence as well.” A pause. “Are you alright?” The line is oddly scratchy, with an almost imperceptible, repetitious ‘click’ every few seconds.

“Are you recording this?”

“It’s a secure line, Sherlock,” his brother says impatiently. “Do me the honour of not attempting to change the subject. At least, not in such a clumsy fashion.”

Sherlock is a touch offended, but he doesn’t protest. It _had_ been clumsy. He must be more distracted than he realizes.

“I’m fine,” he tells Mycroft succinctly, not inviting discussion of the subject. “If you’re calling about the missing boy,” what had his name been?, “Saltire, you will be pleased to know that he’s safely in the custody of his father.”

Mycroft does not sound pleased. “Mm, yes, we’ve confirmed the boy is in Turkey as well. Despite my annoyance with the situation, I assured William that we will endeavour to locate Hayes and inform the family when it was safe to return to London.”

Sherlock’s eyes focus absently on a poster hung above Lestrade’s filing cabinet. ‘Bombs…Be Alert’. “Who?”

Mycroft sounds, if anything, lightly amused. “William is the Duke’s given name. Hayes is a former burglar that Wilder so unwisely contracted with to perform the kidnapping once young Saltire sneaked out of his rooms at Wilder’s request. Hayes was surprisingly creative in his threats when Wilder wanted to renege on their agreement.”

Sherlock is surprised. “You haven’t caught him yet?”

“It is only a matter of time,” Mycroft says with absolute assurance. “Do you need any assistance?” The offer is made politely, but the sudden undercurrent of steel in his brother’s tone—audible even on such a poor connection—makes it clear that he is no longer talking about the Duke.

“Aren’t you out of the country on pressing business for the crown?” Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock sees Donovan raise an eyebrow.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft’s tone goes vaguely chiding. “You know perfectly well that I do not need a physical presence in London to aid you.” His brother is rarely so free with his words—and the implication they carry—and for a moment Sherlock is quietly impressed with the security of the ‘secure line’ on which they are speaking.

“We have the situation in hand for the moment,” he tells Mycroft. He doesn’t think it’s a lie, though he knows better than to believe that he is anywhere close to seeing Moriarty’s full intent. “But I will keep your offer in mind.”

“See that you do,” Mycroft orders before abruptly ending the call. He has always been as uncomfortable projecting overt concern at Sherlock as Sherlock is at receiving it.

Sherlock pockets his phone and turns from the disturbingly ironic poster on Lestrade’s wall to gaze again at the map and riddle, though—like every time he has turned his eyes upon them in the last few hours—nothing new has occurred to him for their unravelling. This is beginning to become quite maddening.

“No luck yet?” Lestrade asks from where he’s reappeared in the doorway. He carries a pile of papers.

“The credit card and phone records?” Donovan looks to the Inspector hopefully. The hope dies as he shakes his head.

“The credit cards haven’t been used in a week, and the phone—wherever it is—is switched off with the battery removed. We can’t use it to find him.”

“The mobile’s last known location?” Sherlock asks brusquely.

Lestrade grimaces. “Not much help there. Before it shut off entirely five nights ago, it was somewhere on the grounds of Musgrave’s estate.”

“At what time was the last signal received?”

Lestrade checks the report. “Ten thirty p.m.”

Sherlock stares at him. Clearly lack of sleep is beginning to interfere with Lestrade’s (fair, if limited) reasoning ability. “ _On_ the grounds? You’re certain?”

“Fairly, yeah,” the DI confirms, glancing again at the report he holds. “Brunton doesn’t have GPS, but there are plenty of towers in that area, and the technicians managed to pinpoint his last location within fifty metres or so.”

“Why?” Donovan asks Sherlock, drawing the word out in an obvious prompt. John looks up from the file he is perusing and watches the exchange curiously.

“Do you make it a habit of removing the battery of your phone when you leave your place of employment?” Sherlock asks the Inspector.

Lestrade frowns. “He may have, if he were going on the run.”

“But why would he do it _then_ as opposed to before he arrived? He was there after dark without Musgrave’s knowledge or permission, presumably to steal the map or engage in some other shady dealing. Why would he wait until he was already at the estate to switch off his phone?”

“Perhaps he’s an idiot,” Donovan volunteers, making it obvious from her tone that she believes Sherlock to be one as well. The detective ignores her, instead staring at Lestrade until he gets it.

Lestrade is not dull-witted. “If he was attacked on the estate, his attacker has had three days to take care of any evidence. There may not be anything left,” the DI cautions, but he collects his coat from where it lies draped over a chair. The others follow his example.

Sherlock doesn’t bother. The excitement kindled by the possibility of progress—of a _lead_ —warms him through entirely.

He grins fiercely as he pushes through the office door. “There is always something left, Lestrade, and I will always find it.”

**

Despite the late hour, Musgrave isn’t at home when they return, and for a moment Sherlock wonders if he is wrong in his assumption of the man’s only incidental involvement in the situation. A call to the man’s mobile, however, reveals that he has set himself up at a nearby hotel—with the entirety of his boarded staff—for the next few days, ‘For peace of mind, you understand.’ He readily gives them permission to conduct a second search of his property, and they waste no time in beginning.

It is an entirely different atmosphere than the time they passed here a handful of hours before. The grounds and house are eerily silent save for the soft swishing of the displaced air pushed ahead of the occasional car passing outside of the fence, and the lights on the cars that were flashing so frenziedly earlier in the day are still and dark.

They proceed as strategically as possible. The house was already well searched, but it was searched with a bomb—a small, frequently electric device—in mind. The hiding places where one might hope to secure a body form a separate set of possibilities. It is in those locations that are present in the second set but not the first that they focus their search.

Given the drama that has been orchestrated into the case so far, it should come as no surprise that they find Brunton in the wine cellar.

Musgrave is an amateur wine maker, and as such, he dedicated a small, detached building entirely to this purpose. Brunton’s body is pulled—stained and swollen and horrible—from a large cask of aging red wine.

One of the uniformed constables assigned to assist them steps back from the corpse with a violent curse and leaves the building to be sick. John drops into a crouch beside the body and fulfils the requisite duty of checking for a pulse all of them know is lacking.

“He’s dead,” John confirms as he stands back up. He’s paled slightly and breathing through his mouth rather than his nose, a defence which Sherlock can well understand: he has never been fond of red wine, and he thinks now he may be put off of it entirely.

It is not long before they locate the map. It’s carefully folded in Brunton’s left back pocket, utterly disintegrated by the contents of his improvised tomb.

**

Day 4:

As Sherlock expected, the map does prove to be artificially aged, but with the image of Brunton’s body (drowned, the medical examiner determines) fresh on their minds, the vindication falls flat. And when they are again gathered in Lestrade’s office going— _again_ —through the same files, rehashing the same information, tempers are short.

Sherlock drops his head onto the table top with an audible thump and groans. “This is intolerable.”

“No one ever said solving crime was all fun and games,” Lestrade says ironically.

“You could always leave,” Donovan whispers under her breath from where she sits pecking away at Lestrade’s computer. Sherlock ignores them both.

“I should talk with him again,” Sherlock says after a minute.

John’s reaction is immediate. “No.”

Sherlock is beginning to find the constant mother-henning irritating. “John, we’re not getting anywhere. I may be able to get us more information.”

“And it would be so much more _interesting_ than sitting here doing actual police work,” Donovan sing-songs before grimacing at her own mimicry.

Sherlock stiffens at the implication, but he doesn’t have the degree of self-delusion necessary to pretend he doesn’t, on some level, agree with her.

Nonetheless, the comparison with Moriarty is all the more cutting for its accuracy.

John appears equally unhappy with the insinuation. “We have leads we can follow up now that don’t involve putting you in the same room as a psychopath.”

“Like?”

“Looking into why Musgrave was targeted to begin with. Or why Brunton was killed.”

“As I said before, Musgrave wasn’t the target. He was only chosen because Brunton was in his employ,” Sherlock says flatly. “Brunton was killed because he worked for Moriarty.”

The surprise in the room is surprisingly electric, given that Sherlock thinks the relationship is fairly obvious.

“Wait, Brunton was killed because he worked for _Moriarty_?”

“It’s a hazardous line of work.”

“What makes you think Brunton had anything whatsoever to do with Moriarty, freak?” Donovan always seems to take it personally when Sherlock makes deductions that haven’t occurred to her. He thinks by now she should be used to the occurrence.

“It does seem more likely he was caught in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Lestrade agrees, but he looks open to the concept that Sherlock may have seen a connection that he didn’t. It’s certainly one he’s had enough practice with.

“When Musgrave found Brunton in the library examining the map, it was, by his own admission, completely dark,” Sherlock explains.

“And?”

“And, do you ever find it effective to read a map in a dark room?”

“So, he had a torch,” Donovan says, crossing her arms.

“No, Musgrave said Brunton didn’t have anything else on him,” Lestrade says contemplatively, having clearly read the summary of the interview with a careful eye. “You think he was supposed to plant it for Musgrave to find?”

“I think he was supposed to be caught with it. It happened exactly as it was meant to: Musgrave ‘stumbled’ upon his handyman acting furtively and clutching something that appeared to be an antique map. Given Musgrave’s rather befuddled personality, it certainly served to capture his attention. Moreover, given the manner of Brunton’s death, it’s clear that Moriarty had some sway over him. Enough to convince him to meet either himself or one of his agents in the wine cellar five nights ago in order to kill him.”

“You’re assuming Moriarty killed him,” Lestrade says. “But what if it was someone Brunton was working with? He-,”

“Or she,” Donovan cuts in.

“-or she could have wanted the map for themselves. They thought it was a treasure map, after all.”

“In that case, the murderer wouldn’t have left the map folded in Brunton’s pocket.” Sherlock points out wearily, eyes drifting to the clock. There are far more efficient ways he could be spending his time.

“Then suppose it had nothing to do with the map and nothing to do with Moriarty either,” Donovan says. “That’s possible.”

Sherlock arches an eyebrow at her. “A murderer completely unrelated to the current drama killed Brunton by drowning him in a cask of wine?” She glares at his tone, but she knows his point is a good one.

“But _why_?” John asks. “What could he possibly have wanted to accomplish?”

“Brunton? Or Moriarty?”

John waves his hand. “Either. Both.”

“Brunton was likely promised money for his role. As for what Moriarty hopes to achieve, well-” Sherlock wishes he had a better answer for this. His continued uncertainty around the consulting criminal’s motives is grating. “It remains to be seen.” He doesn’t mean for his phrasing to come across quite as ominously as it does, and it has a dampening effect on an already sombre room.

They continue to work in silence—the idea of Sherlock meeting once again with Moriarty tabled for the moment—until the continued sense of inertia once again drives Sherlock from his chair. There’s less room available now, with Lestrade and Locard both returned, but he makes do.

He feels as though he is missing something obvious. Something that Moriarty—with his unparalleled knowledge of the workings of Sherlock’s mind—has set for him to find. Something hidden in plain sight, as flagrant as the introduction of a gay hospital technician with an admiring smile that conceals an intent so much darker.

It is intolerable that he cannot see it.

Sherlock’s steps lead him past John, who takes a moment to glance up from where he is scratching notes on a notepad and smiles at him grimly. He also passes Donovan, doesn’t smile, grimly or otherwise.

“Stop pacing!” she hisses, actually kicking at his shins from where she sits at Lestrade’s computer. “It’s bloody distracting!”

Sherlock gives her a disdainful look and resists the urge to snap back in the face of her ire. “Given that your concentration is unlikely to assist us even minutely, I don’t really care if you’re able to focus or not.”

She kicks him again.

“Enough!” he yelps, hopping back. John laughs softly, and Sherlock shifts his glare to his flatmate. Locard doesn’t glance up at all.

“Children, honestly,” Lestrade says under his breath.

“What are you even looking at?” Sherlock asks Donovan in keen frustration as he peers at the computer screen. “Is that a tree? Do you expect that a newfound interest in dendrology will somehow prove anything other than utterly useless?”

“It’s an elm tree,” Donovan says defensively. “I’m _trying_ to find something to help us, and I’m desperate enough to try my luck on the Internet. If you had managed to make any progress whatsoever, I wouldn’t-“

Sherlock’s face goes pale as the image Donovan found pulls at something in his memory.

“Sherlock, what is it? What’s wrong?” John interrupts the Sergeant as he stands up in alarm.

Sherlock turns to his lover, stricken.

**

Before:

Sherlock’s eyes are closed.

“Don’t even try it,” he says languidly. John laughs in return, that surprising giggle that Sherlock occasionally manages to startle out of him. The dried leaves that John had been intending to toss upon his resting friend make a soft rustling sound as John drops them to the ground.

“How on Earth do you know I’m planning to try anything?” The laugh is carried over into John’s voice, and the warmth of it winds pleasantly into Sherlock’s ear.

Eyes still gently shut, Sherlock stretches where he lays, the blades of grass a gentle caress across his arms, sleeves rolled up to the elbow in a compromise to John’s gentle ribbing about his overly formal park attire. The unexpectedly warm temperature of the day is perfect for the outing, and a gentle breeze occasionally wafts across Sherlock’s face and arms. The setting has left him distinctly mellow, a pleasant, if infrequently experienced, feeling.

“I tracked your movements.”

“Mmhmm,” John replies, amused and sceptical, though he should certainly know by now that Sherlock doesn’t make assertions he cannot support. “Where did I go, then, oh wise one?”

“You started at the bench, there,” Sherlock says readily, eyes still closed as he inclines his head approximately thirteen degrees to his right toward the park bench he knows to be present. “There was a lady—elderly, wearing pince-nez gauging by her speech—feeding pigeons with whom you exchanged a greeting.”

“You know she was wearing pince-nez glasses by gauging her _speech_?” John laughs in incredulity, which was, of course, Sherlock’s intention with the remark.

“Precisely,” Sherlock responds gravely toward his flatmate’s location. “The favoured type of eye ware is found in the inflection of certain words. I wouldn’t expect you to grasp the intricacies.”

“Heaven forbid.” John settles down by Sherlock’s left hip, the soft shifting of his clothing signalling his rearrangement along with a slight increase in the ambient temperature of the area. “What else?”

“After your discussion with the pince-nez wearing librarian-“

“You know she was a _librarian_?”

“-you were approached by a girl,” Sherlock continues. “Eight, perhaps nine years old. She’d lost her cat.”

“I’m not certain ‘lost’ is the word. She knew exactly where the wretched thing was.”

“She requested your assistance in retrieving the animal from a nearby tree. There.” Sherlock lifts a hand and gracefully gestures down and to his left. John seizes the hand and loosely clasps it as Sherlock moves to lower it, cradling it between his own and lightly bending the fingers this way and that. A soft heat—different from the fire that ignites their lovemaking, but just as encompassing—blooms in Sherlock’s chest.

“You went to assist her, of course,” Sherlock continues with a studied calm, his attention abruptly focused on the feel of John’s skin against his own.

“Wouldn’t you?”

Sherlock pretends to consider the question. John scoots closer toward him, and his hand begins running gently up the inside of Sherlock’s forearm.

“That would depend on the height of the tree in question.”

“You don’t already know how tall it is?”

“My initial survey of the park was more focused on the built infrastructure,” Sherlock admits, twitching as John’s fingers reach his (ticklish) inner elbow.

“But you didn’t feel any compulsion to see if I might need help?” John’s voice softens as his fingers run the length of Sherlock’s arm, and the question is asked with a slight huskiness that leaves Sherlock tingling.

“You are well versed in heroics.” Now his own voice has roughened. “I knew my assistance wouldn’t be necessary.”

“I don’t think climbing a tree to retrieve a disobedient tabby qualifies as ‘heroics.’”

“Nonetheless,” Sherlock says, opening his eyes at last to see John leaning over him. He’s wearing a small, lopsided smile, and is completely, heartbreakingly beautiful. “I know of no one more competent than you to affect a rescue. You can be trusted to your own devices.”

John beams before leaning down to kiss him.

**

“The tree I was under,” Sherlock clears his throat as he finishes recounting the memory. “It was an elm.”

Locard watches him intently. “You’re certain.”

“Yes. And the tree that John climbed to retrieve the cat was an oak.” Moriarty had been there, either in person or through one of his myriad of agents. He had _watched_ them. Sherlock feels ill, and judging from John’s expression, he is just as unsettled by the realization.

“I see.” Locard is quick to process the information. “Inspector Lestrade, we must get to this park immediately.”

“Agreed,” Lestrade says succinctly. “Sergeant Donovan, contact the bomb unit. I’ll be at the park setting up a perimeter.”

“Sir,” Donovan replies smartly before disappearing down the hallway at a run. Lestrade is quick to join her. Sherlock considers following them for a moment, but the recognition that Moriarty had been present in his life without him realizing, without him having even the _tiniest_ indication has shaken him ( _where has his mind been? what has he been thinking of?...he doesn’t like the answer_ ).

He needs a moment to process.

“And we, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson,” Locard says, moving to settle himself in Lestrade’s chair and ending Sherlock’s internal debate. “We shall wait.”

It takes no more than half an hour to get confirmation that a device is indeed present in the park: strapped around the leg of the bench the elderly woman had been sitting on (which, Sherlock remembers, can certainly be said to measure the requisite number of paces from the tree he had rested under). The bomb unit retrieves it without incident, and it is removed immediately to a Met facility for analysis and destruction. They beat the deadline with two hours to spare.

Interpol’s involvement is substantially motivating to the laboratory processing the chemical sample, and they receive the preliminary report on the device and the chemical a few hours later.

“It’s an organophosphorous compound.” Sherlock has the best grasp of chemistry of any present and immediately seizes the draft of the compound’s predicted structure. The laboratory technicians are waiting for clearance before combining the two binary ingredients, so a final confirmation of the resultant compound will not be available for some time.

“It’s a nerve agent,” Lestrade translates, reading the summary report. “Similar to sarin, but this particular compound hasn’t been seen before. It is expected that it affects the human body in much the same way.”

“God,” John says quietly.

“God has nothing to do with it,” Donovan mutters darkly from where she is leaning against the wall. She looks to the Detective Inspector. “We need to figure out where he got it.”

“And if there’s more of it,” Lestrade agrees, heaving himself to his feet with a telling amount of effort. He hasn’t slept in over forty hours, and his fatigue is beginning to show.

“Is there something we can use to mitigate it in case it gets released again? I mean, inoculate people or something?” Donovan asks John. Before she finishes her question, the doctor is shaking his head.

“There are drugs we can use to treat exposure, assuming it acts on the body the way sarin does,” John says, almost apologetically, “but they’re expensive, and there’s only a limited supply in the country. Prophylaxis would be impossible.”

Sherlock is familiar with organophosphorous compounds, and the reality of the danger that his city faces is all too easily visualized. He abruptly needs to move. To act.

“This is getting us nowhere,” Sherlock says, turning and striding toward the door.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Lestrade asks him with a frown. He gives him a weighted look, and the DI catches on immediately. As does John.

“You’re not talking to him alone again,” his flatmate says resolutely.

Sherlock tries to reason with him, though he knows John will never grant his unreserved support for this particular tactic. “He said he’ll only talk to me, and we don’t have time to call his bluff. Getting the information about the location of the next device from Moriarty directly is the only method open to us at the moment. You can’t let your personal feelings get in the way.” The blatant hypocrisy of the words goes unremarked, but his friend is nowhere close to being convinced.

“We don’t even know that there _is_ a next device,” John says exasperatedly. “The man is insane, Sherlock. You may not want to see it, but the rest of us do.”

Anger abruptly clenches Sherlock’s stomach. “Want? This has nothing whatsoever to do with what I _want_ , John.”

His friend has the grace to look slightly abashed, but his jaw remains clenched in stubborn commitment to continue to argue the point.

“Dr Watson,” Locard speaks up at last. “I can understand your reluctance to speak with Monsieur Moriarty-“

“It’s not _me_ I don’t want talking to him,” John breaks in. Locard continues as though he had not spoken.

“But please believe me when I tell you that the interactions Mr Holmes have with Monsieur Moriarty are invaluable. They are helpful both to the resolution of this incident and to the investigation of Monsieur Moriarty himself.” It is a sharp reminder that Locard, in addition to his role as Interpol’s representative during the present danger, could also be considered to be the premiere authority on James Moriarty.

Besides Sherlock, of course.

“Helpful,” John echoes flatly. “Well, so long as it serves a greater purpose.”

Sherlock feels the touch of bitterness in his lover’s voice as something almost physical. “John,” he begins before stopping. He doesn’t know what to say. Lestrade and Donovan are watching them, both looking acutely uncomfortable. Locard just looks calm.

John tries to smile at Sherlock reassuringly, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. After a moment, John looks away, and Sherlock’s stomach churns at the expression of defeat. He has no words to fix this—he truly _does_ have no recourse but to continue to play Moriarty’s game—and his utter lack of ability in this arena leaves him uncertain and frozen.

So he says nothing at all.

“Let us begin round two, yes?” Locard says, breaking the moment.

As they follow him out the door, Sherlock hears John sigh. “Round two of how many?”

Sherlock wishes he had an answer.

**

Moriarty is scratching at the table when Sherlock sits down, and this time Sherlock—still reeling from his incapability to bring comfort to his own lover—takes the time to examine it.

‘J&S’ has been scratched through the varnish. Oddly enough (or perhaps not, given with whom he is dealing), the initials have been etched upside down, so that as Sherlock looks at them from across the table, they appear right side up.

Moriarty sees him looking and grins. “It’s doesn’t have _quite_ the spectacle of my last testament of affection, I know, but it’s just as heartfelt.”

Sherlock stares at him stonily. “We found the chemical device at the park.” The apparent emptiness of the room makes every word seem to echo and fall with greater weight into the tense—almost taut—air around them, and Sherlock abruptly wishes for the presence of someone else. Anyone else.

“Oh?” Moriarty’s tone is one of profound disinterest, but his eyes on Sherlock are keen beneath his dipped lashes.

“You’ve been watching me.” ( _Watching us._ )

“Well, of _course_.” He sounds surprised Sherlock would think otherwise. “I had to keep track of you somehow.” Moriarty leans forward confidentially. “And I’ve managed to collect a perfectly _lovely_ collection of photographs as well. I’d send you copies, but I doubt you would get quite as much _enjoyment_ out of them as myself.”

Sherlock refuses to react, but his shoulders twitch at the thought of John’s likely reaction to the comment as he watches from the observation room.

“I’m ready for the next one,” Sherlock says to change the subject. “Let’s get on with it.”

“Next one?” Moriarty parrots.

“The next clue.”

“Clue?” Moriarty’s lips draw up in a small smirk as he watches Sherlock expectantly: an imp waiting breathlessly for the fallout from a particularly clever bit of mischief.

Something in Sherlock’s torso twists and goes cold. “Where is it?” he asks, maintaining firm control over his voice in order to continue to sound calm.

“Where’s what?” the criminal questions innocently. His eyes are malevolently pleased as they flick back down to the scarred tabletop.

“ _Where_ is the next device?” As he follows Moriarty’s gaze, Sherlock realizes that the other man is staring at the detective’s hands, which are clenching into involuntary fists. He pulls them abruptly from the table and stands.

“That’s rather presumptuous, don’t you think? Assuming that I’m just going to _tell_ you.” Moriarty has the gall to act put out by Sherlock’s reaction, shaking his head like a disappointed parent. Sherlock flashes to the memory of Brunton’s body, pathetically stained and limp, as it is pulled from the cask, and something snaps.

Sherlock slams his palms down on the table between them. Moriarty doesn’t flinch, but something in his smile firms and widens. “Watch yourself, darling. You’re getting a bit _dark_.”

(‘ _Where was the shadow? Under the elm._ ’)

“If you don’t give me the clues to try to locate it, then what is the _point_?” he hisses at Moriarty. Dimly, he realizes that he’s not entirely in control of himself, propelled by stress and frustration too long dammed, but it’s difficult to fully comprehend the thought through the fog of anger evoked by Moriarty’s smile of superiority.

Moriarty cocks his head to the side. “My dear, maybe I just wanted your _company_.” Moriarty stands: so slowly, it should not have been alarming. Instead, it is evident from his unbroken, challenging stare that he means for his movement to telegraph the inherent threat of his presence. “Or maybe, Sherlock,” he continues, expression growing ever-more sinister the closer he leans to the detective, “I just wanted to _break_ something.”

There’s a flash of red, an abrupt pain in his hand, and the loud bang of the door slamming open, and only then does Sherlock realize that he’s struck the criminal. He absently examines his fist—one of the knuckles is split—before he looks down.

Moriarty sits sprawled in his chair, fingers gently worrying at the split skin of his lower lip. He catches Sherlock’s eye and laughs. Victoriously.

Hands on his shoulders (Sherlock realizes later that it must have been Lestrade) lead him from the room, but even after the door swings shut, Sherlock fancies he can still hear the laughter.


	5. Chapter 5

  
**Act 2: A Rational Tangle**   


**Any integer can be associated with a tangle of two ropes. By performing a sequence of two simple operations, we can untangle the ropes in a surprisingly straightforward manner.**

 

“Well that was a cock-up,” Donovan says disgustedly, running her hands through her hair. She hasn’t taken the time to wash it, and bits of it cling lankly to her forehead.

Sherlock doesn’t look up, instead keeping his eyes trained on his hands. His right hand in particular.

No one disagrees with the Sergeant. Not that they should, necessarily: what had happened in the interrogation room could unequivocally be termed a ‘cock-up,’ though Sherlock does think on some level that it’s bad form to call attention to something so evident.

“What’s important is what we do now,” Lestrade says robotically, clearly responding to an internal prompt of some sort around ‘how supervisors shall proceed.’

“What _can_ we do?” Donovan’s frustration—transformed as always into anger—fills the room. “Our only lead is locked away from us for his own protection after having his teeth knocked loose!”

Sherlock doesn’t react, but his hand throbs at the reminder of his mistake and its consequences, and he feels again that flash of deep rage that had so briefly yet entirely overwhelmed him. He feels vaguely sick.

The Commissioner reacted in the only way possible when a civilian consultant attacks a prisoner in police custody, and Sherlock was entirely barred from interacting with Moriarty (had it not been for the intervention of Locard, he knows he would be barred from the station entirely). Moriarty still refuses to speak to anyone who _isn’t_ Sherlock, and the entire mess has come to a spectacular standstill.

“It doesn’t matter,” John insists from where he presses against Sherlock’s side. He’d gently examined Sherlock’s hand after the incident and has remained beside him—supportive in every sense of the word—since Sherlock was released from what had seemed to be a never-ending reprimand. “He wasn’t going to tell us where they are, remember? He only cares about destroying things.” John’s tone is one of icy outrage, though whether it’s a result of Moriarty’s threat to innocents or his more personal threat to Sherlock, Sherlock does not know. Perhaps both.

Sherlock wants to reach out to him, to tell John how much he values his continued faith, but if there is anything his altercation with Moriarty taught him, it is that he has been far too lax in ensuring he is detached from his emotions during this encounter. His deductive processes have undeniably suffered—his inability to see through Moriarty’s puzzles is a clear testament of this fact—and he has already lashed out once. Who knows what he will do the next time he allows himself to lose control? ( _what he will break_?)

If he is going to win this game, his mind must be clear. Clear of _everything_ that may possibly distract him.

“We will continue to search for any indication of Monsieur Moriarty’s movements before he entered the station yesterday,” Locard says. It is the first time he has spoken since Sherlock was pulled from the interrogation room beyond his quiet insistence to Lestrade’s superiors that the consulting detective be allowed to remain on the premises for the good of the investigation.

Was it really only yesterday? To Sherlock, it feels as though he has been in this station—in this _room_ —for days on end.

“It won’t work,” Sherlock says dully, eyes falling shut with the futility of it. “He’s too clever for there to be any sign of him for us to find. The only way to beat him is to play his game, and at the moment, that’s impossible.”

Donovan glares at him venomously. “Shut it, freak. I _don’t_ want to hear anything out of you.”

He hears Locard’s light footsteps as the Interpol agent walks over to where Sherlock sits and stands above him.

“We have another option for winning this ‘game,’ Mr Holmes,” Locard says. “One that does not involve surrender to what you seem to believe at the moment is inevitable.”

The phrasing is so like Mycroft’s that Sherlock’s eyes open. Locard’s face is the expressionless mask Sherlock has come to expect, but his eyes are kind.

“And what option would that be?” Sherlock asks. John’s shoulder presses more firmly against his own, but he resists the urge to press back.

“We cheat,” Locard says drily, actually winking before striding with demonstrable energy over to the collected information they have reviewed time and time again.

It’s not a particularly stirring speech (though the others certainly appear to take it to heart, if their renewed vigour is any indication), but it serves to motivate Sherlock nonetheless.

Or, more accurately, it serves as a realistic base for Sherlock to pretend to grasp for inspiration.

In reality, his intensity as he returns to the search is fuelled by the all too clear image in his head of Moriarty’s smirking visage: licking the blood from his teeth and eyes alight with wicked triumph at shattering Sherlock’s composure.

He and in Locard are in agreement: this is no time to be playing by the rules.

**

Day 5:

They take turns sleeping for a handful of hours on a cot that is erected in an empty office down the hall. Sherlock would just have soon as not availed himself of the chance to rest, but first John and then Lestrade threaten to have him sedated if he does not take regular naps during the course of the situation. They both recall Sherlock’s severely sleep deprived state the last time he had crossed paths with Moriarty and neither is anxious for a repeat.

Sherlock understands their concern (he remembers well his exhaustion that day in the Baker Street flat and how muddled his thinking had become, until he was inches away from forgetting who he was entirely), and eventually he bows to their demands that he take his turn on the cot. Nonetheless, it is not his intention to sleep while he is in there. John insisted he leave his mobile in Lestrade’s office, but he did not go so far as to search Sherlock’s person, and the phone that Sherlock lifted from Donovan’s purse is safely stored in his pocket.

But he is more lethargic than he anticipates—the physical altercation with Moriarty and the strain of the aftermath—and he drops off briefly, stretched out as much as the small cot will allow.

The dream comes quickly.

He’s once again lying under the elm in the park, but it’s no longer the clear, sunny day his memory recalls.

It’s dark. Night. A sickly quarter moon hangs above him, but the light of the stars is obscured by storm clouds that are whipping almost invisibly through the air. The sky is so murky, only the merest hint of their presence can be inferred from the trail of darkness they drag across the moon.

There’s a rustling sound in the leaves above him, and he languidly tilts his head to see Brunton’s body hanging over one of the thick branches. The positioning of the corpse is such that Sherlock has an unimpeded view of Brunton’s eyes, open and horrified.

A droplet of something, wine or blood—both would appear colourless in the dark—drips inevitably from the dead man to fall on Sherlock’s upturned forehead.

He is unconcerned (bodies and other scenes of horror ceased to disturb him years ago, and he realizes on some level that he is dreaming), but then his name is called from off in the distance, and he turns to see an image with unparalleled power to affect him.

John is standing at the far end of the park, caught in a pool of light that is rapidly retreating. He’s dressed, of all things, in his military uniform, and he’s calling—desperately—for Sherlock to join him.

It is then that Sherlock understands that his friend is unable to leave the circle of light he’s encased in. John hammers upon it, blue eyes wide and distraught under the edge of his helmet, but his hands rebound as though the edge of the light is a physical wall.

Sherlock tries to stand to go to him and help, but he realizes that the shadows pooling under the elm tree have begun to slide over his body, pinning him to the ground.

Or, no, instead it is he that is sinking slowly into the grey ground: dissolving into the shadows.

Panic grips him—the knowledge that this must be a dream lost in the sudden, animal desire to escape—and he struggles. But no matter how he thrashes, the darkness continues to envelop him, a cold nothingness that is more terrifying than the sharp, physical pain he would have expected.

“Turn on the light!” John shouts from the light, which is now further away than before. “Sherlock, turn on the light!” His voice is growing faint, and Sherlock can no longer make out the details of his face as the column of brightness pulls away from him.

Sherlock throws himself desperately toward his lover, but the inky blackness refuses to relinquish its hold on him, and he falls-

He falls into the shadows, and a sharp, high-pitched laugh echoes in his ears as the last of the light disappears entirely.

He falls until he hits the floor of the office and wakes, the blanket from the cot tangled about his legs and his breath echoing harshly.

No one questions him when he returns to Lestrade’s office well before the end of his allotted break. And if anyone notices the remnants of the nightmare upon his person, they do not comment.

**

Hours pass. They are paradoxically more serene and more nerve-racking than the ones that have gone before. The deadline for the next attack is unknown, but none of their party doubts that one is indeed coming. This disconnect—physical exhaustion coupled with unending trepidation and gross uncertainty—affects them in varied ways: Sherlock paces in never-ending circles about the office until Lestrade (with Donovan in heartfelt support) threatens to handcuff him to the furniture. Locard reads with undiminished intensity, a behaviour John heroically attempts to mimic before his exhaustion catches up with him. Despite having taken his own turn on the cot some hours before, he falls into a light doze, head pillowed on his arms.

Sherlock would like nothing better than to join him—his eyes went hot and gritty hours ago—but even if time were to allow, he knows his mind wouldn’t settle enough for sleep to be possible. Not with two more devices threatening the city and himself so damnably useless in uncovering their location.

A loud clatter breaks his attention, and Sherlock turns to see Donovan rubbing her foot and scowling. A borrowed chair lies on its side before her, giving testimony to her chosen outlet for her frustration.

“Sergeant Donovan, please refrain from destruction of the furniture,” Lestrade chastises her tiredly.  
The clatter of the overturned chair wakes John, and he blinks sleepily as he rubs at his eyes. Sherlock has a sudden, vivid flash of sense memory (John, golden hair flattened on one side from hours spent curled up on the bed, talking, laughing). It makes his heart ache.

“I’m taking a walk,” Sherlock announces, striding toward the door before anyone has a chance to reply. Or before he has the chance to give into his desire to reach out to his friend.

“Shall I come with you?” his flatmate asks drowsily before Sherlock reaches the door, moving to stand.

“No, John,” Sherlock replies at once, more brusquely than he intends. He softens his tone immediately. “I need some fresh air. And some quiet.” The last is said with a sidelong look at Donovan, who is still attending to her foot.

John looks faintly hurt at Sherlock’s rejection of his company, but he nods and sits back down with a tired smile.

No one else looks inclined to follow him, for which Sherlock is extremely grateful.

He waits exactly three minutes—counting the seconds off steadily in his head—before he convinces the officer guarding the interrogation room holding Moriarty that he has once again been allowed access.

**

Moriarty’s eyes flick up and down Sherlock’s frame, working out the reason for his visit the moment he enters the room. “Did you steal away to see me?” he gasps, eyes wide in artificial shock. “I must say, I’m a bit surprised, Sherlock. I was beginning to think you didn’t have it in you.” The cut on his lip has clotted and scabbed over, forming a dark slash that Sherlock has difficultly looking away from. It jumps and dances with every word and expression of Moriarty’s performance.

“I’m glad to know I can still surprise you. I was afraid the thrill of uncertainty was gone.” The words fall flat—Sherlock is too tired to attempt anything approaching his typical verbal sparring—but Moriarty doesn’t appear to mind.

“Perish the thought. You know I’d never tire of _you_.” The scab curls as Moriarty leers, and Sherlock jerks his eyes away.

He doesn’t sit immediately, instead choosing to remain standing and loom over the other man, for all the effect that it has.

The consulting criminal smiles in delight at this behaviour and leans over the table toward Sherlock. “Not sure what to do next, are you, dear? Would you like a hint?” he whispers mockingly.

Sherlock glares that the other man, but he doesn’t answer. And the lack of a negative response is a response all its own.

Moriarty laughs, sitting back nonchalantly. “Really, my dear, such sturm und drang. It’s not so difficult to ask for help. It’s my understanding that _people >_” he puts a strange lilting emphasis on the word, “do it on a daily basis. Go ahead, and give it a try. And sit down.”

Sherlock stares at him unwaveringly. He does sit—slowly and carefully, with his eyes never leaving the other man—but the words he knows Moriarty are waiting for ( _‘please,’ ‘help’_ ) won’t emerge.

Moriarty cocks his head at him. “Poor thing,” he coos. “Would you feel better if you _earned_ it rather than asking for a favour?”

“Earn it how?” Sherlock asks warily, immediately on guard.

The criminal pretends to consider. “Well, given the circumstances,” a meaningful rattle of his cuffed hands, “what I’d _like_ to ask for is out of the question.” His gaze turns heated as he gives Sherlock a lingering look. Sherlock resists the impulse to fidget, and after a moment, Moriarty sighs resignedly.

“However, with the situation being as it is,” Moriarty drawls, “I’ll settle for a kiss.”

“You’re joking,” Sherlock says flatly.

Moriarty smiles at him brightly. “Not in the least! Only a small one?” he cajoles. “A token of favour to see me through the cold, lonely nights of a life prison sentence? No?” Sherlock merely glares at him. “You’re cruel, my dear. Entirely cruel.” The approving smile Sherlock receives makes it clear that it isn’t an insult.

“Be serious!” Sherlock snaps at him.

“Oh, but I am, Sherlock. I am.” Moriarty’s lids drop languidly over his eyes: the cold, steady blink of a reptile. “You’re not exactly a _nice_ man, are you? I’m sure no one would kid themselves about that. Not even that mongrel that insists on following you about.”

It’s the first time Moriarty has specifically mentioned John’s connection to Sherlock, despite the obvious allusion from the placement of the first weapon at the park, and Sherlock goes rigid. He commands his body to relax again immediately, but despite his efforts, Moriarty’s eyes narrow in feline satisfaction at whatever he sees reflected in Sherlock’s visage.

“Ooh, hit a nerve, did I?” Moriarty questions mockingly. “Or is that trouble in paradise, I sense?”

“Shut up,” Sherlock orders coldly. “John is no concern of yours.”

“Mmm, well that’s debatable. Anything that concerns you concerns me. And you are concerned, aren’t you, Sherlock?”

“Not even minutely,” Sherlock lies effortlessly.

“What I don’t understand,” and here Moriarty leans forward, something approximating true curiosity across his face, “is why you feel compelled to pretend that you’re one of them.”

“Them?”

Moriarty waves his bound hands dismissively. “Yes, them. Those nice, friendly, _ordinary_ human beings that somehow manage to live every day in their horribly dull existences: working, doing the weekly shop, _marrying_.”

“I’m not pretending anything,” Sherlock tells him, as firmly as he is able. It feels like a lie, even as he voices it, and Moriarty gives him a look irritatingly akin to pity.

“Are you sure?” Moriarty's voice is suddenly a whisper, and—almost against his will, and certainly against his better judgment—Sherlock leans forward to hear him. His voice is so quiet, neither the recorder nor their observers (who will surely be present in the observation room momentarily, if they’re not already) will be able to make it out.

“Are you _absolutely_ certain you know want you want?” Moriarty asks. His voice is lilting and persuasive—nearly hypnotic when coupled with the intensity of his eyes—and Sherlock has no trouble believing in that moment that Moriarty does indeed have a vast network at his disposal: worshipers on the altar of his mad brilliance.

“I don’t think you do,” Moriarty continues in that same unbearably intimate tone when Sherlock doesn’t respond. “I think you’re looking for someone else to _tell_ you what it is you’re supposed to want. That’s why you insist on remaining in the company of such obvious inferiors: you’re looking for guidance.”

The criminal pins Sherlock with his gaze. His pupils have dilated hugely, and for a dizzying moment, their blackness seems to suck all the light from the room.

Moriarty smiles with all of his teeth. “I’d be absolutely _rapturous_ to guide you, Sherlock. All you have to do is ask.”

It’s at this moment that the door to the interview room slams open. “Sherlock!” John calls from the hallway. A pair of constables step into the room, expressions wary.

“Mr Holmes, if you will be so kind as to come out now?” Locard: his voice as level as always, but his eyes are incensed.

Sherlock stands up slowly; resists the urge to shake himself like a sleepwalker throwing off the remnants of a particularly engrossing dream.

“Ta ta, darling!” Moriarty calls as Sherlock leaves, pairing the farewell with an affected little hand wave.

“And Sherlock…” Sherlock stops in the doorway, despite the urging hands of the Interpol agent and his flatmate, and looks back.

Moriarty smiles with indulgent triumph. “You can pay me for the hint later.”

John pulls him bodily from the room before he can respond.

**

“What the _hell_ was that?” Somewhat surprisingly, given the array of furious faces that surround him, Donovan is the first to whirl on Sherlock when the small, livid group reaches Lestrade’s office.

Sherlock matches her anger with his own. “I was _trying_ to obtain information to locate the next device and save lives! Before you all barged in and stopped me!”

Donovan scoffs. Loudly. “I don’t know what that was, but it was _not_ about saving lives.”

“Damnit, Sherlock!” Lestrade this time. “You can’t keep _doing_ this!”

Locard is standing back to watch the proceedings, a small frown on his face, but it is John that Sherlock’s eyes land upon. John who is standing just beyond the Inspector’s shoulder, head bowed.

“I’m doing what I have to do, Lestrade!” Pathetically, Sherlock’s voice almost shatters on the words, they are so replete with emotion: frustration, confusion, anger, worry…all in battle for dominance and all with their own insidious artillery ( _had he ever been truly afraid before, or is it only now: an inescapable aspect of finally having something to lose?_ ).

“A madman is targeting London because of me, and there’s nothing I can _do_!”

“You can trust us,” John says. His lover raises his head, and the recrimination that Sherlock had anticipated in his gaze isn’t there. He looks tired—lines of stress and worry easily perceptible—but the predominant sentiment on his face is quiet understanding and something Sherlock hesitates to name. Something reflected in John’s eyes like a pool of deep, still water: peaceful and formidable. “You can trust us to help you.”

It takes a moment for Sherlock to consciously realize that the room has fallen silent. Has been silent for the last few seconds while Sherlock can do nothing more than stare at John.

John, who is staring back with a small smile, as though inwardly laughing with the realization that he’s managed to shock Sherlock into an uncharacteristic tongue-tied silence. It’s such a habitual expression of his friend’s—an ordinary reaction, in these most extraordinary of circumstances—that Sherlock almost mirrors the gesture, and something inside of him unclenches for the first time since he had received Lestrade’s phone call.

John has become such an integral part of Sherlock’s existence, but until now, Sherlock has not consciously thought of him as a puzzle piece in Sherlock’s life that just…fit. Without fanfare, but with a perfection that Sherlock had never known he was missing.

It’s humbling, this realization.

“Dr Watson is correct,” Locard finally enters the discussion. “We will not be effective in our investigation if we do not trust one another to play our parts to the best of our abilities. And with our peers’ full knowledge,” he adds smoothly. His unruffled, detached demeanour saps the tension from the room instantly.

“Despite the unauthorized nature of your discussion with Mr Moriarty, Monsieur,” Locard continues, addressing Sherlock specifically and—at last—with the preferred honorific, “did you learn anything of merit?”

Sherlock takes a deep, cleansing breath. He addresses the Interpol agent, but his eyes are on John’s. “I did.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Sturm und drang?” Lestrade repeats, blinking at Sherlock blankly. He mangles the pronunciation.

“Correct.” Sherlock is busy with his mobile, fingers flying across the keys, and it feels _good_ , so good, to be moving forward at last. Desperate to be anywhere other than Lestrade’s small office, they have removed themselves to the tiny staff kitchen, and the smell of burnt toast hangs in the air. It’s making Sherlock rather hungry, actually, for the first time in days.

“German?”

“Yes.”

“Storm…and urge?” Lestrade is clearly struggling to make sense of Sherlock’s unexpected language shift.

“That is the literal translation, yes.”

“’Storm and stress.’ It’s a movement in eighteenth-century German literature characterised by the free expression of extreme emotion,” Donovan says from the sofa.

They stare at her, and she shrugs nonchalantly before ruining the act by averting her eyes from their surprised expressions with a light blush. “What? I went to Uni.”

“You think…Heidegger?” John asks Sherlock, brows drawn together in thought.

“Exactly,” Sherlock replies, smiling at his flatmate for making the connection.

Locard shifts where he sits next to the Sergeant on the ratty sofa, either impatient or vaguely uncomfortable with their uncharacteristically informal setting. “And who is this man, Heidegger?”

“That is what we need to determine. We’re short on time, but as it happens, I have a source in the government who owes me a favour,” Sherlock says, fingers continuing to manipulate his mobile.

“Are you…are you asking Mycroft for _help_?” Sherlock had anticipated surprise and perhaps a bit of confusion at this admittedly unusual act, but he thinks the sheer poleaxed expression on his lover’s face is uncalled for. Though this is admittedly not the moment to address it.

“His assistant,” he corrects instead.

“You have her number?” Sherlock shoots John an arch look, and he flushes slightly, coughing uncomfortably.

“Mycroft wanted me to have it in the event of emergencies that meet very specific criteria regarding loss of life and destruction of personal property. Let’s just hope he still has his connections in Germany.”

“There is no need,” Locard says. “I should have no trouble obtaining the information you wish.”

Sherlock looks up from his phone. “You have connections in Germany?”

Locard smiles with more animation than Sherlock has yet observed from him. “Monsieur, I am with Interpol. I have connections everywhere.”

**

Interpol’s vast database of crime statistics, reports, and criminal information—known as the I-24/7 system—is without equal. Mug shots, fingerprints, DNA samples: all are collected, cross-referenced and stored in a titanic system available to agents through a secure, remote connection.

It is this connection which allows Locard to pull up the particulars of David Heidegger on Lestrade’s rather antiquated desktop computer once Sherlock explains the particulars of the Saltire ‘kidnapping.’

“Does he have a criminal record?” Lestrade asks, leaning over Locard’s shoulder to peer at the screen. The information displayed is entirely in French—presumably the account is set to Locard’s preferred language—so the DI’s movement has no real practical value.

“None,” Locard replies, leaning back in the desk chair with a small frown. “There is very little information available on Monsieur Heidegger. Birth records, some few years of employment, a driving license. Nothing further.”

“When did he move to London?”

“Perhaps seven months ago? There is very little specific.”

“Do you think his records were erased?” John asks. Locard looks vaguely offended at the insinuation.

“The Interpol database does not allow records to be erased, Monsieur,” he says. “Though it is possible that the German government’s system may not be able to make such a claim. The little information that is available came from there. Mr Heidegger is not currently listed in the I-24/7 system.”

John is impressed. “You have access to any country’s police records?”

“In a matter of speaking. There are limits,” Locard says, waving his hand dismissively as he continues to frown at the screen. “I do not like that there is so little available on Mr Heidegger.”

“Is he one of Moriarty’s, do you think?” John asks Sherlock.

“Impossible to say. He may have been selected from the school randomly and then his records erased recently.”

“I wonder if we’ll find him in a wine cask somewhere,” Donovan says under her breath. Sherlock banishes the visual this summons.

“He assumed the position of German instructor at the preparatory school just this term,” Sherlock says, brandishing the file that Mycroft had given him a handful of days ago. “According to his initial statement, the headmaster—Huxtable—doesn’t know him well.”

“Hopefully he had references, at least,” Donovan says ironically. “It’s terrifying, isn’t it? Knowing that a man no one knows anything about could get hired to teach children.”

“Whoever he is or was, he is the clue. The location of the next bomb relates to some aspect of his life,” Sherlock says.

“There’s a home address on the school employment records.” John leans over Sherlock’s shoulder to flip through the papers in the file. “Shall we start there or at the school?”

Something cold and certain coalesces in Sherlock’s gut, and he abruptly _knows_. “The school. It’s at the school.”

There is no need to elaborate what he means. “You’re certain?” Lestrade asks, eyes going to flint.

“It’s what he would do,” Sherlock says simply. “I’m certain.”

The Inspector nods. “That’s good enough for me. Sergeant, call the bomb unit back together. Tell them to meet us there as quickly as possible but to keep it discreet. No blues and twos. The last thing we need is to cause a panic.” It is already nine a.m. Assuming another noon deadline—which is, they all know, far from certain—they have very little time.

“Understood.”

He pauses at the door. “And alert Coggins in CTC.”

This time Donovan’s response is coloured with a trace of something Sherlock can’t identify. “Yes, sir.”

She continues under her breath as they follow the Inspector, and this time Sherlock has no trouble intuiting her feelings. “Bloody hell.”

The bomb unit locates the second device in Heidegger’s German classroom with an hour to spare. It is rather uncreatively strapped to the bottom of one of the pupil’s desks.

Headmaster Huxtable cooperates with the operation, collecting the pupils and instructors into a central location to be transported off the grounds, though he seems seconds away from flying into an incoherent panic every moment of the approximately five hours that Sherlock is at the school. The Headmaster appears equally distraught at the removal of the classroom furniture to forensics for trace evidence processing as he does at the presence of the device to begin with, and it is with a sense of relief that they return to the station. But the man’s hysterics are almost pleasant when compared to what awaits them back at the Met.

Counter Terrorism Command, or SO15, was established in 2006 from the merger of two separate departments to form a single entity to investigate and respond to terroristic incidents in London. The Command also provides the Met’s CBRN capability, attending to all potential chemical, biological, radiological, and nuclear threats, and Sherlock had wondered—when he had time to spare for the fairly trivial question—why the Command had not been involved from the beginning of the incident.

When he, Locard, and Lestrade are present in the initial meeting with DCS Coggins, he understands.

“You are in flagrant violation of _clearly_ outlined policy. Did you believe we simply wouldn’t notice that there are chemical weapons being bandied about London?” Coggins hisses at his CID counterpart.

DCS Vincent, Lestade’s supervisor, recoils slightly, though given the near-apoplectic expression on Coggins’s face, Sherlock doubts he notices. He certainly appears to be entirely concerned with his personal rage at the situation and the involvement—or lack thereof—of SO15.

Vincent was newly promoted to his position. Sherlock knows from review of several Met investigative reports that the man is an excellent investigator and well-known for encouraging the talents of those under his command, but it is evident that assertiveness is not an inherent personality trait.

“DCS Coggins, I can understand your frustration, but it wasn’t immediately clear that CTC’s involvement was called for. Once we received confirmation that the compound qualifies as a chemical weapon, we notified you immediately.” The words are strong, but the man’s voice falls off in uncertainty as he stares into Coggins’s furious face. From where he stands next to Sherlock, Lestrade shifts: a wince translated into motion.

“You received confirmation almost twenty-four hours ago, Detective Chief Superintendent,” Coggins says shortly. “However, putting that aside for the moment, you should have gone through the proper channels the _moment_ a chemical threat was even suspected. What _exactly_ are you playing at?”

“The only thing we’re ‘playing at’ is the prevention of a catastrophe. There was no time to go through proper channels.” Sherlock interjects. He does not think his tone is particularly disdainful or impatient, but DCS Coggins reddens even further, and Sherlock realizes belatedly that he had been looking for an opportunity to vent his self-righteous rage.

“What is this man even doing here, Vincent?!” he spits. “He is _not_ , the last time I checked, a member of the Metropolitan Police Service.”

“Nor am I, DCS Coggins,” Locard says smoothly. “Yet, your superiors believe that I may be of assistance in the current circumstances. They believe the same of Monsieur Holmes.”

“Agent Locard, your presence is not in question here.” Coggins makes a visible effort to master his tone as he espouses the standard rhetoric. “As a member country of Interpol, the United Kingdom will always welcome you and your fellow agents. But that welcome does not extend to civilians, certainly not those that are known to assault prisoners in police custody.”

“Just the one,” Sherlock points out, and Lestrade coughs in warning.

Coggins darkens. “Does this situation _amuse_ you, Mr Holmes?”

“No, it doesn’t,” Sherlock tells him bluntly. “But I’m involved whether you welcome me or not.”

Vincent shoots Lestrade a vaguely panicked look at Sherlock’s continued challenge of DCS Coggins, and the Inspector plucks lightly at Sherlock’s shirtsleeve in an effort to quiet him. Sherlock ignores him. “Moriarty has insisted that he will speak only to me. Like it or not, Deputy Chief Superintendent, you need me.”

Coggins glares at Sherlock with obvious distaste, but when he speaks, it is to Vincent. “We are in the middle of a delicate and dangerous situation. The last thing I _need_ is Lestrade’s pet project running amuck in the investigation!”

“DCS Coggins, I understand, but-,” Vincent begins.

“Pet project!” Sherlock exclaims at the same moment, offended. Lestrade abandons plucking at his sleeve and instead grabs his arm: a caution that Sherlock disregards immediately. “DCS Coggins, I can assure you that it is you who needs _my_ assistance. Not the other way around.”

“The Metropolitan Police Service has been protecting London since 1829, Holmes,” Coggins snaps. “I think we can continue to do so without you.” Coggins transfers his glare to Lestrade. “Inspector, remove this civilian at once.”

Lestrade has been pulling insistently on Sherlock’s arm for the last minute, and Sherlock at last lets himself be moved. Time is precious, and arguing with this infuriating man is the least of all valuable ways that he should be spending it.

“Don’t worry,” Lestrade says as he chucks him—gently—out into the hall. “DCS Vincent has the Commissioner’s approval for your involvement, and he won’t allow you to be thrown off the investigation. He was very impressed with you the last time this happened.”

‘This,’ presumably, refers to Moriarty, and as Lestrade returns to the meeting, Sherlock allows himself for a moment to truly feel the disturbance that this situation—this entire _mess_ that has been plaguing him for the last several months—has brought into his life.

He wants it finished.

“All done?” his flatmate asks as he comes up behind Sherlock from where he must have been watching for his re-emergence.

“No,” Sherlock replies, and a myriad of shades are present in the response: relief that Coggins is unable to have him removed entirely, frustration that nothing has truly been resolved, fatigue—far, far too much fatigue—with no end in sight.

John must hear all of them, because his hands on Sherlock are gentle and warm and absolutely everything that he needs at the moment. “Let’s try to get some sleep. Who knows how things will look in the morning?” Sherlock glances at the clock: whatever the morning will bring, it’s not at all far off in arriving, and his mental tally (hours of rest gained versus hours of work lost) emerges in favour of snatching a few, quiet hours with John.

John’s question—rhetorical in nature—had not been reassuring or even particularly hopeful, but Sherlock appreciates the truth of it. Empty platitudes have never held any appeal for him.

They engage the flimsy lock on the door of the co-opted office and sleep as much as they can: pressed seamlessly together on the tiny cot, breathing each other’s air and lulled by the rhythm of each other’s heartbeats.

**

Day 6

Lestrade’s assessment of the Commissioner’s reaction proved to be correct, and Sherlock learns after the meeting that—though CTC will now be heavily involved in the case—his participation is still requested (though the term Lestrade actually used was ‘not unwelcome’).

In the morning, Sherlock leverages his brother’s resources to track down James Wilder. The man is still in Turkey—along with his father and half-brother—but Mycroft’s assistant is exceptionally capable (not that Mycroft would tolerate anything less), and somewhere thousands of kilometres away, Wilder is marched into a room, handed a phone, and ordered to be uncharacteristically truthful.

“Um, hello?” Wilder sounds extremely confused and not a little terrified.

“James Wilder, this is Sherlock Holmes. We met briefly three days ago,” Sherlock says briskly, pacing about the much larger area now available to him. One advantage of the CTC’s addition is the assignment of a large space—formerly a conference room—as a base of operations, which adds a great deal more floor space: an often overlooked yet necessary component for an effective investigation, Sherlock feels.

“Yes, I remember,” Wilder says before trailing off in obvious bewilderment. “Why are you calling?”

Sherlock doesn’t beat around the bush. “Do you know a man named James Moriarty?”

He can tell from the immediately indrawn breath and hesitation before response that the answer is yes.

“No,” Wilder lies. “I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure.”

Sherlock allows some of the fury that has been roiling about his insides for the last few days to seep into his words. “Mr Wilder, if you lie to me, I will have whichever government operative is currently standing over you shoot you in the head and throw your body into the Black Sea. Is that understood?”

“I…you can’t be serious.”

“I am deadly serious,” Sherlock says, placing emphasis on the word ‘deadly’ for added effect. “You are insignificant, and there is a situation currently endangering London that is of a great deal more importance than the disappearance of a single man abroad. The scales are not in your favour.”

“The Duke-,”

“The Duke will survive your loss,” Sherlock breaks in with as cold a tone as he is capable, which, frankly, he knows to be quite chilling. “He has another son to continue his lineage. I’m sure he could afford to lose one of you.”

Wilder confesses immediately, but the information he is able to provide is patently unhelpful:

He does indeed know of Moriarty: the consulting criminal was responsible for sparking Wilder’s plan to ‘kidnap’ his younger brother to coerce both money and a place in his father’s will. However, this is where his useful information ends. Wilder never met Moriarty in person, and all communications occurred through email.

Hiring Hayes had been Wilder’s idea, which proved to be an ‘exceptionally bad’ one. He lost track of the kidnapper once he and the Duke fled London to escape him, and he has no idea of where he is now.

When Sherlock ends the call, it is with an inward curse, not that he had truly expected Wilder to have information of merit. Moriarty is too careful for that. At least the reason for the selection of the Duke of Holdernesse’s family as pieces on this game board is reasonably answered. Though the involvement of a ‘valued acquaintance’ of Sherlock’s brother is certainly not to be overlooked, and Sherlock orders himself to focus before he begins to wonder (again) _exactly_ how much Moriarty knows of his life. The answer, he is certain, is not one he would enjoy.

Sherlock reclaims his chair at his newly assigned desk and stares around their new workspace.

In addition to the added square metres, the CTC had also seen to the procurement of other resources including computers, phones, and a rather flashy map of London projected up on a large wall. Sherlock, frankly, is satisfied with simply having somewhere to work besides Lestrade’s cramped office, and he searches for any information on Heidegger with more enthusiasm than he has been able to muster over the last several days.

The enthusiasm lasts for precisely one hour. Then a plainly wrapped parcel arrives in the mail addressed to Sherlock.

They bring it to forensics immediately.

“Well, whatever it is, it won’t explode on us. Probably,” Lestrade says as he gently sets the package on the bench. He had carried the package personally from the mail room to the forensic laboratory—where it had been scanned as much as the Met’s technology would allow—with Donovan keeping pace beside him, and Sherlock, in turn, doesn’t hesitate to open it.

Besides, he finds the way the room as a whole seems to take a deep breath and hold it to be rather amusing.

He reveals a box of Lego plastic bricks. The bright, blue box promises to hold 221 pieces and an instruction booklet. It bears a label featuring a virulently coloured barn and a cheerfully shiny cow with a mad grin.

“Given the circumstances, that’s extraordinarily creepy,” John whispers, from where he leans over Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Fingerprints,” Sherlock orders, using a pen to slide the box back across the bench toward one of the laboratory technicians. “Look on the inside of the paper as well as the box itself. Don’t bother checking the bricks themselves. The box hasn’t been opened.”

As the technician reclaims the box to dust it for fingerprints, Sherlock turns to Locard. “According to the post script, it was mailed yesterday.”

The agent catches on at once. “Mr Moriarty did not send it himself, of course, though I have no doubt he is the one who planned its delivery. However, I have been told in no uncertain terms that you may not be the one to ask him of it.”

Given that Sherlock had first struck Moriarty and then sneaked in to see him without any authority besides his own, it is not surprising that the Commissioner—while encouraging Sherlock’s continued involvement—has not relented on the issue of Sherlock questioning Moriarty in person.

It is not surprising, but it is frustrating.

Sherlock doesn’t protest. Again. “Any more information on the construction of the device?”

“Only that it was likely built locally.” Locard shrugs. “It is a very unfortunate truth that such a destructive mechanism is so easily built. All of the parts could be obtained in London, save the chemical itself.”

The chemical. The additional hours have yielded no greater information on its origins. It is yet another question in a seemingly endless queue of unknowns. One that Sherlock is not certain he’ll ever have an answer to, unless Moriarty decides to offer up the information on a whim.

For a moment Sherlock wonders if he could convince him before he wrenches his mind back from the idea with an inward shudder. The price—no matter what form it ended up taking—would be too high.

“Inspector,” the technician calls from his worktable. “We have a usable print.”

A shot of electricity jolts up Sherlock’s spine, and he practically flies across the room. “From the paper or the box itself?”

“The box. There’s nothing on the paper.”

“Who does it belong to?”

The technician—young, pale, and rather tired looking—gives him a testy glare. “I haven’t run it yet.”

“Then get on with it,” Sherlock says, restraining from making a hurrying motion at the technician only by virtue of John’s presence and his knowledge of how his flatmate feels about these things. Then he gives up and grabs the freshly copied print himself. “Better yet, let me do it. You can double check the box and paper.”

“Thank you, sir,” the technician replies snidely, but Sherlock is already at the scanner and doesn’t bother to hear him.

“Any match?” Lestrade asks after approximately a minute. Sherlock is not the only one itching for results.

On cue, the program makes a soft, pleasant beep and loads a file.

Elated, Sherlock reads it. Then he frowns. “Neville St Clair.”

“Who is he?” John asks.

“I have no idea,” Sherlock replies, a bit sourly. “But whoever he is, he went missing three days ago.”

“Of course he did.” Lestrade rubs a tired hand over his stubble and sighs. “Alright, let’s get started. Who filed the report?”

“His wife.”

“Then let’s go talk with her. Sergeant Donovan, I’d like you to take care of that, but try not to let anyone in CTC see you leave. We can call them in if it looks as though there’s any possibility of the house being targeted. Take Dr Watson with you.” Lestrade points at Sherlock when he opens his mouth to object to being excluded. “You run forensics on the package. Don’t argue with me, it’s what you’re good at, and we need something good right now.” In the back of the room, the technician emits a light groan at the news, but everyone ignores him.

“If you agree, of course,” Lestarde says to Locard belatedly. The agent smiles reassuringly.

“This is your investigation, Inspector. I am merely present to assist you. It seems to me as though you have the situation well in hand. I too will remain at the station. Perhaps I can uncover something about Monsieur St Clair that will prove useful.”

“I hope you do, Agent Locard,” Lestrade replies, before leaving, no doubt on a mission to update the administration.

Sherlock hopes so as well.

**

Upon analysis, the box of Lego blocks yields a great deal of information, though none of it of any import: it had been purchased in Chelsea; it had ridden in the boot of a vehicle containing maroon carpet and brick dust; and the last person to hold it had recently eaten chips.

After determining the wealth of unusable facts, and searching for distraction while he waits for John and Donovan to return, Sherlock turns to exploring the life of Mr Neville St Clair.

St Clair is without a doubt one of the most boring people Sherlock has ever investigated: forty-six years of age, married, with a house in Brent and a job in Harrow where he has worked as a construction engineer for the last twelve years. He has no criminal record, a respectable income, and no large expenditures in the last six months beyond some monies expended for a minor surgical procedure. Gall bladder removal, it appears. A boring procedure if there ever was one.

The most salacious fact Sherlock is able to unearth about St Clair at all is a record of a year abroad in Southeast Asia in his early twenties. Presumably this sparked a love of international travel, because St Clair followed it up with six years of work as a contractor to various private and government agencies that involved frequent international trips, the most recent of which was ten years ago.

Sherlock sits back with a sigh. He’s on the brink of taking a trip to the electric kettle for some instant coffee—again—when John and Donovan return.

He races across the floor and meets them at the door. “Well?” Donovan is smiling with self-satisfaction. Ordinarily this would not be of interest to Sherlock, but in the current circumstance, he hopes it means she truly has something to be proud of. Locard joins them and looks at the Sergeant expectantly.

“Most of what she had to tell us was in the report,” Donovan begins. “Three days ago St Clair left for his job but never got there. His vehicle and a pile of clothing—later confirmed to belong to him as well—were found down by the dock a day later. CID is working with an assumption of foul play.”

“Yes, yes, we’re aware,” Sherlock cuts in impatiently. “What did you learn that _wasn’t_ in the report?”

She spares a moment to glare at him, but she must be equally affected by the sense of urgency surrounding them, because she gets to the point.

“Well, firstly, that box of Lego was something that St Clair was supposed to be purchasing for their son the day he disappeared.”

Interesting, though not unexpected. “And secondly?”

“What wasn’t stated in the report is that Mrs St Clair is certain she saw her husband yesterday in Lambeth.”

“Why were we not informed?” Locard asks with a frown.

“She called 999, but the Constable who took the report thought that she must have been mistaken.”

“Mistake her own husband? Her _missing_ husband?” Sherlock makes his disbelief obvious.

“The man who she claimed to be her husband was spotted in a part of town he had no business being in,” Donovan explains. “He was dressed like a vagrant—her own words—and entered a house he has no connection to. The Constable knocked on the door, but no one in the house would admit to knowing St Clair. He assumed Mrs St Clair had simply seen what she wanted to see.”

“If he had no business in that area, what was she doing there?” Sherlock asks.

“She’s a mail carrier,” John answers. “That street is on her route.”

“In that case, it is not outside of the realm of possibility that the man she saw was indeed her husband,” Locard says. “Mr Moriarty seems to enjoy orchestrating events in such a way.” It’s a rather severe understatement of facts, but Sherlock agrees nonetheless.

“We need to go check the house,” Sherlock says.

“What house?” Lestrade asks as he joins them. “Is this about St Clair?”

“Yes, sir,” Donovan replies. “A man fitting his description was seen by his wife entering a house in Lambeth yesterday.”

“Where exactly?”

Donovan gives the address, and for a moment, Sherlock is unable to breathe.

"What?" the Sergeant asks, looking abruptly at Sherlock though he is certain he made no noise. He does not have the air to. "Do you know the place?"

Sherlock feels the beginnings of a chill settling over him: an outgoing tide as the warmth suddenly leeches from his body at the recitation of the address. He very carefully doesn't look at Lestrade. Or at John.

Sherlock clears his throat. "I know it," he confirms.

He wishes it was a lie.

**

It's a small building. Built of tan stone—blackened to a deep charcoal by exhaust here and there—and jammed between two larger, blocky constructions with well-tended porches, it has the look of something supported only by its neighbours: a shameful drunkard of a cousin tolerated only because of the family relation.

Sherlock recognizes the place, but only abstractly, in broad brush strokes utterly devoid of particulars. It's an interesting phenomenon (if 'interesting' is at all the proper adjective, and he thinks it must not be, given the complete and utter lack of emotional resonance), being—as he is—so accustomed to observance and remembrance of the most minute of details. As it stands, the house number burns more brightly in his memory than the building itself. He'd seen it frequently on the police reports on those occasions his brother descended into sadism veiled as pedagogy.

John shifts next to him in a nervous gesture quickly stifled, but Sherlock pretends not to notice. His friend had deduced the relation of the house to Sherlock immediately, of course. It’s not at all difficult to take note of the setting, complete with graffiti and rubbish that litter the area, and come to the realization of ‘drug house.’

They do not pause on the pavement after alighting from the police car, and after only a single glance of something that may be concern (and Sherlock is silently thankful that the reaction from the DI is so limited given the man’s own experiences with the location), Lestrade leads the way through the front door, splintered from the raid CTC conducted twenty minutes before. Donovan is quick on Lestrade’s heels and— never one to shirk from unpleasantness, no matter its context—Sherlock follows immediately behind her.

Inside, a tight, dim hallway carpeted in a mossy green runner long gone to grey opens to a large room with peeling wall paper, greasy windows and a series of lopsided mattresses strewn haphazardly across the bare, wooden boards.

The view itself is foreign, but the smell of the room—old, musty incense overlaying bleach, and the acrid scent of unwashed bodies—strikes Sherlock viscerally, and for a moment he reels.

 _Fiery heat burns along the right side of his body as someone presses against him—the touch unwanted and inescapable—but his fingertips are frigidly, shockingly cold: the sensation an insidious invader as it crawls slowly up his arm to his shoulder and then to his chest. There’s a fan blowing stale, dusty air into face as he curls around the sudden, clenching pain in his gut, and somewhere in the shifting fog that surrounds him a voice is screaming..._

“Sherlock?” John touches his shoulder with the overly light grip he hasn’t bothered with since their first week of acquaintance, and Sherlock startles slightly, pulled from the memory as abruptly as he’d entered it. His breathing is slightly accelerated, but it’s minor enough he doubts any of his companions will notice.

Sherlock turns slightly to face his friend: enough to denote acknowledgement but not so far as to look at John fully.

He doesn’t want to see the reaction on John’s face to this first unavoidably visual bit of evidence that Sherlock has such darkness in his past. Not yet.

“Your men have detained those present?” Sherlock asks Lestrade instead. The DI takes the question as the hint it is and leads them further into the house. Another, smaller room—perhaps a study in a previous incarnation—gives way to a surprisingly large kitchen, the appliances ripped from the wall to leave only gaping holes and abruptly terminated piping and wires that reach like skeletal arms toward them.

A group of ten is present in the space: two uniformed Constables standing guard over eight others who are seated directly on the floor against the wall. One woman and seven men, ranging from a single teenager (male, eyes wide and nervous as he clutches his shoe, where he has no doubt hidden an illicit substance) to a blank-faced woman in her late sixties. Despite the variance in age, gender, and race, they have a striking, almost familial resemblance: each of them thin and hunched with haunted eyes and dry, chapped lips; frames draped in shabby clothing in shades of grey.

Sherlock can’t look at them for more than a moment. Mycroft had seen to the destruction of any photographic evidence of Sherlock in a similar state, but Sherlock can easily (too easily) visualize himself sitting next to them...

Sherlock shakes himself out of it. There is no time to indulge in nightmarish fantasy, no matter how deeply it may be rooted in reality.

He won’t give Moriarty the satisfaction.

He turns to Lestrade, who has been conferring along with Donovan with the two Constables on guard duty.

The DI is shaking his head. “St Clair’s not here,” Lestrade says, anticipating Sherlock’s question.

CTC’s sweep of the house hadn’t yielded any evidence of another weapon, and—with the memories of his last visit here darting about in the air like ghostly, unwelcome fish—Sherlock is at a loss in regards what to do next. It is an unusual and extremely uncomfortable feeling.

One of the men on the floor shifts and begins muttering, slowing increasing in volume. “I want to go home. I want to go home. Iwanttogohome.”

Suddenly it’s too much. “Take them to the station for processing and tag everything in the house,” he tells Lestrade. “I need some air.”

He rushes out before anyone can stop him.

**

Sherlock is more surprised than he ought to be when Lestrade is the one who corners him first. With his typical doggedness, the DI doesn’t even wait until they return to the station and instead pulls him aside on the pavement. On the far side of the street from the house, Sherlock is almost amused to note. He imagines this distance is meant as a kindness, but instead the positioning results in the house sitting unavoidably poised above the DI’s left shoulder as he talks to Sherlock: a perfectly framed reminder of Sherlock’s weakness.

“Are you alright?” Lestrade asks him, as Sherlock knew he would. His response is—he is certain—equally anticipated.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock replies shortly. “It’s been five years, Lestrade. Besides which, I’m hardly a child to be frightened of an empty house I no longer have any connection to.”

“Nonetheless, it wouldn’t be unreasonable for you to have trouble being here again.” Lestrade says calmly. “You almost died here, Sherlock.”

“I am quite aware of that fact, thank you. Why is this location still in operation at all? I’m aware the Met is typically bumbling when it comes to drug case prosecution, but it’s still rather ridiculous.”

Lestrade ignores his snappish tone. “It also wouldn’t be unreasonable for you to talk to someone about what happened. It may even be healthy.”

Unavoidably, Sherlock’s eyes drift to where John stands near the waiting police car. His lover isn’t obvious about watching them, but Sherlock can see the tell-tale way his head is cocked toward them, the glint of his irises as John peers out of the corner of his eye.

Sherlock gives him a little wave, and John abruptly turns to face Donovan, the tips of his ears flushing slightly.

“He’ll understand,” Lestrade says with certainty, and Sherlock feels the small smile that had come to his lips at John’s actions slip away.

He looks back at the DI, and—though he is as certain as he can be that his face is entirely composed—something prompts Lestrade to feel a need to reassure. “Don’t forget, he’s been in active combat. He’s familiar with war zones.”

“I wasn’t at war with anyone,” Sherlock says, his voice surprisingly raw.

Lestrade doesn't answer, but Sherlock sees his response ('weren't you?') in the tilt of his head as clearly as if he had spoken it.

After a moment, Lestrade sighs. "Talk to him, Sherlock. Talk to someone. Please. The last thing we need on this investigation is a second nutcase."

The dig, though slight and not at all up the DI's typical standard, is familiar and very welcome, and Sherlock tosses off the last of the sickly, grasping sensations evoked by the memory of his near-fatal overdose.

"This investigation will take exactly what it is given, Lestrade, be it a _genius_ consulting detective, a DI with no appreciation for logic, an interloping Interpol agent, or an over-aggressive Sergeant."

"I suppose we all have to make do with the resources at hand," the DI replies easily, and as a pair they turn to leave. "Though given the odds on this occasion, God help London."

"London doesn’t need the aid of any deity," Sherlock says as they approach the police car. His eyes find John's immediately in the small milling crowd of officers, and he injects greater purpose into his stride. Lestrade picks up the pace to keep abreast of him. "Its residents have far too much mettle," Sherlock continues, keeping his eyes on John.

"Perhaps you're right," Lestrade says, but instead of the DI's own gaze resting on John or even Donovan, he looks instead meaningfully at Sherlock.

It's only at John's whispered question as he climbs into the police car that Sherlock realizes that he's smiling slightly from the implied praise.

**

When they return to the station, they find—if possible—even greater anxiety than before.

“Bastard had to choose a school,” Lestrade says to Sherlock under his breath as they look through the glass fronted door of the conference room where the upper levels of the Met administration are conversing. Locard is also in the meeting, which Sherlock does not envy in the slightest. “The higher-ups are worried that he’s escalating.”

“He _is_ escalating,” Sherlock replies bluntly. “That’s the point.”

“It worries me that you can see his plan so clearly. It really does,” Donovan says, but it’s said without the usual connotation, and so Sherlock does not feel the need to retaliate.

Locard pushes out of the room, tension visible in the set of his shoulders, though he maintains his even tone. “Well, Monsieur Holmes, at least one good thing has emerged from this meeting of minds.”

“And what’s that?”

Locard’s smile is humourless. “You have been granted authorization to once again question Mr Moriarty.”

From where he’s leaning against the wall next to Sherlock, John stiffens, but he does not voice any objection.

Sherlock takes a step toward the interrogation rooms. Finally. “Well, then. Let’s go see what he has to say.”

Locard doesn’t move. “I would ask that you allow me to question him, please.”

“He may not accept that,” Sherlock points out, and Locard nods.

“I would still try it.”

“Is that one of their conditions?” Sherlock asks, nodding his head toward the conference room.

“No, it is one of mine.” Locard holds up a hand to forestall any objection. “I have some ideas of how to approach this discussion, and I would ask you to trust me.”

Something in Sherlock’s chest flips over. Despite John’s words the day before, ‘trust’ is not something Sherlock has much experience in.

Though, as he looks at those gathered around him, it dawns on him—the realization absurdly tardy—that he is beginning to.

**

“Did you enjoy the trip down memory lane, my dear?” Moriarty asks Sherlock once he and Locard arrive. He says nothing about the agent’s presence, clearly too delighted to witness Sherlock’s reaction to the latest twist. His eyes are alight with malicious humour and that same dark intensity that has been present since his arrest. "You have a rather intimate connection to that little house, after all.”

Sherlock ignores him, and Locard takes the opportunity to assert control over the questioning.

“We will find Mr St Clair,” the agent tells Moriarty evenly. “It is only a matter of time. Your little game here serves no purpose.”

Moriarty doesn’t even glance at the agent, a slight twist in his mouth—equally amused and sneering—the only sign that he had heard at all.

“I had thought about buying it for you, you know,” Moriarty says to Sherlock, voice soft. “A little slice of bliss, all our own, since you seem so _fascinated_ by the idea of domesticity. You with your violin and cocaine. Me with my bombs. Perhaps we could have gotten a cat. Wouldn’t that have been perfectly lovely?”

Mindful of Locard’s request, Sherlock doesn’t respond to the taunt, but he does allow himself the luxury of an especially glacial glare. Entirely unfazed, its recipient’s smile widens.

“But in the end, I decided you would appreciate a puzzle more than property," Moriarty continues. "I do know you so very _well_ , dearest, and you’ve never been the type to enjoy the upkeep necessary to maintain a household.”

“What is Neville St Clair to you? Why target him?” Agent Locard may as well have been speaking to the wall for all the notice Moriarty pays him.

Moriarty tilts his head to the side as he stares unblinkingly at Sherlock, and though he knows it’s exactly the reaction being sought by the criminal, Sherlock refuses to look away. “I suppose your soldier is responsible for the majority of the chores, hmm? Not very modern of you, Sherlock. Rather old-fashioned, really. Though I can understand the appeal. They’re so very loyal, soldiers. And so _good_ at taking direction. What sort of direction do you give yours, hmm?” The eyes slit with menace. “Or perhaps, you’re waiting for him to _direct_ you, only he hasn’t, has he? And you’re so _fretful_ of the reason why.”

"That's enough, James," Locard interjects sternly. The moment is so absurdly paternal, that Sherlock is unsurprised when Moriarty bursts into shrill laughter.

Sherlock’s hands hurt, and he realizes belatedly that he has clenched his hands again into fists, the nails leaving small indentations on the pale flesh. He forces himself to relax.

“Don’t be offended, _Edmond_ ,” Moriarty says to Locard. “I’m merely making conversation. Chit-chat.”

If Locard is surprised at Moriarty’s knowledge of his given name, he does not show it. “This is your last opportunity to help yourself, Monsieur. To help yourself by helping us end this.”

Again Moriarty laughs, the sound high-pitched and loathsome. “End this? But my dear Locard, I am having _far_ too much fun. You’re having fun too, aren’t you, dear?” This to Sherlock. “Or are you too _distracted_?”

Sherlock can’t stay silent any longer. “I don’t find you particularly distracting,” he says roughly.

“Oh, sweetheart, yes you do,” Moriarty says fondly. “But try to hang on just a teensy bit longer. We’re almost at the end.”

Sherlock’s heart begins to pound. “What do you mean?”

“You’ll see,” Moriarty replies with an enigmatic smile. “I’d hate to give away the ending, even though it’s so _hard_ to keep it a secret. But I really do want it to be a surprise. You’ll thank me in the end.”

“I doubt it,” Sherlock says, throat dry.

Moriarty’s eyes are gleaming. “Well, okay, you probably won’t _thank_ me. You’ll hate me. But I’m going to do it anyway. And I’m doing it all…for…you,” he whispers, leaning forward with every added word.

The criminal leans back in the chair and closes his eyes. “Go away, now,” he says waving his hand in a move-along gesture. “I have things to attend to. People to see.”

“The only people you will be seeing for the foreseeable future are prison guards,” Locard tells him gravely after nodding to the guard to remove the criminal back to his cell. Moriarty simply smiles.

“Ah, Sherlock,” Moriarty says as they lead him to the door. “Enjoy your time with him while you can.” Moriarty isn’t smiling for once, his laughing mask completely absent, and it makes his words hit Sherlock like cinder blocks. “After all, nothing lasts forever.”

**

Once out of the interrogation room, Sherlock wants immediately to find his lover and hide him away somewhere safe, with or without his permission. He refrains, of course. Convincing John to leave the station under his own power would be impossible at this point, and he doesn’t have any tranquilizers currently on his person.

Locard must read his expression. “The best option for us is to uncover what he is planning and stop it. That is the only way to keep our loved ones safe.”

“I know that,” Sherlock snaps, his anger not for the agent in front of him, but Locard does not take offense.

“I believe that we will solve this, Monsieur. We will beat him. Your mind is such that I have never seen.” The compliment is delivered in such a matter-of-fact tone that Sherlock almost misses it. Throughout the course of his investigative career, he has been variously viewed with astonishment, envy, or fear, and he has learned over time to block out the reactions entirely. Locard’s simple acknowledgement of his skills somehow resonates so much more.

“My record hasn’t been as good as I’d like on this occasion,” Sherlock admits.

Locard nods. “There is much to process. And much at stake. There is no shame in acknowledging this.” Despite the agent’s wholly different meaning, Sherlock cannot help but flash to Moriarty’s taunting words. _’You’re having fun too, aren’t you dear? Or are you too distracted?’_ He pushes the memory out of his mind.

“You have been more receptive to my assistance and involvement in this investigation than I anticipated,” Sherlock tells Locard cautiously. He has had interactions with Interpol agents before, and—to the last man and woman—he has found them to be proponents of strict adherence to protocol and a thoroughly uncreative bunch.

“Mm, yes,“ Locard’s gaze is steady. Despite far too many hours without sleep, his eyes are as sharply penetrating as the morning he arrived. “It was clear from my first interaction with Mr Moriarty that you would be indispensable when combating his plan. That is to say, it was clear from observing his reaction to your Dr Watson.” As though summoned, Sherlock sees John walking slowly down the hall toward them from the observation room, and his stomach twists momentarily at the thought of what John must have thought of Moriarty’s insinuations of their relationship.

“Everyone has weaknesses,” Locard goes on, still looking at Sherlock. “We are all human, and we are all subject to human failings.” His smile deepens for a moment. “Even those with the most brilliant of minds.”

Sherlock is not certain he appreciates the implication. “I’m not convinced Moriarty _is_ human.”

“Really? I become more convinced of it with every passing moment.” Locard claps a solid hand on Sherlock’s arm as John reaches them. “Now, come. Let us see about stopping this man.”

Locard strides off, required at yet another meeting to update Met leadership on what was learned, and John watches him go, a small smile on his face. “He’s surprisingly energetic, when you get down to it.”

“He is,” Sherlock agrees vaguely before hesitating. Why exactly is this so hard? “John, about what he said…”

John waves his hand, though there’s something in his gaze—some revelation—that had not been there before. “Don’t listen to him, Sherlock. He thinks nothing of ripping people open. He gets off on it.”

The words kindle something, and Sherlock catches his breath.

In hindsight, he’s not certain what triggered the connection. Perhaps it is the imagery—disturbingly vivid—of Moriarty tearing open another human being. Or perhaps Sherlock’s mind had simply been working subconsciously for the last several hours. At any rate, Sherlock is as surprised as John when the detective suddenly slams his hands on the wall in front of him. “I am an _idiot_!”

He whirls to see John looking bemused and not a little alarmed. “That’s...not something I ever thought I’d hear you say.”

“You’re an idiot too,” Sherlock reassures him. “We all are.” He runs down the hall, John fast on his heels. “Lestrade!”

“Lestrade! Damnit, Lestrade, where are you?!” Sherlock yells for the DI. The man being sought appears from the small office they have been sleeping in, short hair as awry as it can be.

“Sherlock? What is it? What’s the matter?” Lestrade asks, blinking the confusion of sleep out of his face.

“The custody cell,” Sherlock tells him urgently. “We need to get to the custody cell immediately.”

“What? Why?”

“St Clair,” Sherlock says impatiently, already moving. “St Clair was at the house. He was one of the men arrested.”

“Are you sure?” John asks him. The other men are moving with him, but not fast enough, and Sherlock suddenly pictures a clock, its hands ticking unstoppably onward.

“Yes I’m _sure_!” Sherlock shouts, resisting the urge to bodily pull the pair with him. “I’m also sure that it is St Clair who has the next device.”

Lestrade’s eyes are clearing. “If he’s in the custody cell, he was searched.”

“Not well enough,” Sherlock says, a touch bitterly. Moriarty really is fiendishly clever. “Last week he had abdominal surgery.”

John curses and Lestrade’s eyes widen as they realize what conclusion Sherlock has drawn.

“Let’s go,” the Inspector orders, and together they sprint the length of the hallway. Sherlock’s blood is pumping vigorously through his veins and air is filling his lungs sweetly. Were he not running to prevent a catastrophe of horrifying cost, he would be enjoying the moment.

Unfortunately, there is no time to enjoy anything.

Lestrade is yelling to let them through—let them _pass_ , God damn it—and the few individuals still present in the building this late in the day jump out of their way, but no one stops them, and Sherlock spares a moment to be grateful that Lestrade’s reputation is such as it is.

Or perhaps it is because Sherlock’s own reputation at the Met is so colourful.

When they reach the custody suite, the Duty Sergeant meets their skidding halt with wide-eyed astonishment.

“The men from the house today in Lambeth,” Sherlock says impatiently. “Where are they?”

The Sergeant looks to Lestrade for acknowledgment, another vital second _wasted_ , but he unlocks the outer door, and as a set, they rush into the hallway lined with police cells—catcalls and jeers rebounding off the concrete walls—and then they reach St Clair’s cell to find him sitting on the floor, rocking back and forth like a child and holding his stomach.

“I want to see my wife,” St Clair tells them brokenly, before vomiting blood on the floor.

Everything gets much busier after that.


	7. Chapter 7

**Act 3: Reidmeister Moves**

**First demonstrated in 1927, a Reidemeister move is one of three ways to change a projection of a knot that will alter the relation between the crossings.**

 

A few hours’ time finds Sherlock again at the computer, staring at the screen blankly. There’s so much to do, so many threads to try to wind up into a single, coherent tapestry, but he finds himself entirely without the energy required.

It’s late, and Lestrade and Locard—together with Coggins and other members of CTC leadership—have been in a meeting with the Commissioner for an interminable number of hours about the brazen breach of Met security. However much he dislikes his own circumstances at the moment, Sherlock would not wish to be one of the officers assigned to the custody suite for the world.

St Clair had survived. The pain had been the result of a small tear in his intestines from the placement of the device in his abdomen three days before rather than the release of the chemical itself. The apparatus was removed without complication, and St Clair is now recovering in hospital, his wife at his side.

But it had been close. It had been far too close.

A set of soft footsteps echoes through the empty room, and strong hands come to rest on his shoulders as John steps up closely behind him. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” Sherlock responds honestly, not taking his eyes from the monitor in front of him, though if pressed, he will have to admit to not seeing it at all. John remains standing silently over Sherlock’s shoulder, maintaining the physical connection but not the conversation and after a moment, Sherlock returns his attention—or attempts to—to the sparsely framed paragraphs displayed in front of him: a recounting of the initial raid earlier that day on the house in Lambeth.

There’s nothing to be found, either in the report or at the house itself. Further investigation of the premises by all the specialists the Met has to offer had yielded nothing of any consequence, and thus far the location is exactly what it appears to be: a trivial location chosen entirely because of Sherlock’s connection to it.

After several fruitless minutes, Sherlock leans back in the chair and rubs at his eyes (an indication of physical and mental exhaustion that he would only permit himself to demonstrate to the man behind him).

He feels…bogged down. Heidegger’s missing records, Wilder’s escape to Turkey, the missing Hayes, St Clair’s purchased gift for his son: all the specificities and details available for analysis presented in each of the puzzles work as quicksand to slow his thought processes. To distract him.

It’s finally dawning on him that that is exactly the point.

“Do you want to talk about it?” John interrupts his thoughts with the softly voiced question, gesturing toward the screen in front of him. It is an intentionally vague offer that Sherlock can interpret in whatever way he chooses. He chooses to answer the question that is truly being asked; the one about the last time he had been at that house and what had almost happened there.

“Not yet,” he replies, equally quiet. "After we finish this."

John simply tightens his hands in acknowledgement of the response, and it is this silent understanding—along with the warmth of John’s body so close to his own—that allows Sherlock to relax for a moment.

It is a moment that is far too brief, and it is broken by the return of Lestrade.

The Inspector’s face is grey and enraged as he slams the door open. Sherlock finds himself on his feet.

“Lestrade? What is it? What’s happened?”

Lestrade takes a moment to answer, drawing a long breath that he pushes out in single exhalation meant to calm. It doesn’t appear to help.

“Moriarty reached out to Coggins in CTC,” Lestrade says in a monotone. “He said he’d had a change in heart about the final weapon and wanted to disarm it before it goes off.”

Sherlock wants to laugh at the completely ludicrous idea, but it’s not really funny. “They didn’t believe him, obviously?”

Lestrade’s grim face says all that needs to be said.

“What, are they daft?” John asks. Locard enters the room then. If anything, the agent’s expression is even more furious, though he wears the emotion differently than Lestrade, his face set like stone.

“Did you manage to convince them?” Lestrade asks Locard wearily, receiving a shaking head in reply.

“They wish too much for the lies he has presented to them to be true,” Locard says. “And they are afraid.”

“What did he ask for, exactly?” Sherlock asks impatiently.

Lestrade opens his mouth to answer before looking away with a sigh, failing to meet the detective’s gaze. Sherlock’s stomach sinks.

“Mr Moriarty has requested leniency in prosecution in return for revealing the location of the final weapon.” Locard says.

“Yes, we already heard that,” Sherlock says, a touch severely as the overly-cautious phrasing continues to ring his internal alarm. John touches his arm in reassurance, but Sherlock barely feels it.

Locard’s voice is steady. “He has also insisted that he be the one to disarm the weapon—to go personally to the final location—and the Commissioner has agreed.”

Locard can’t be serious “It’s a ruse! Whatever Moriarty has planned, the _last_ thing we want to do is allow him out of this station!” Sherlock realizes distantly that his voice has risen to a shout, but even so, he can barely hear himself over the roaring in his ears.

“We are in complete agreement,” Locard tells him, “but the decision is not ours to make, and the Commissioner has decided that locating the remaining weapon is worth the risk of Moriarty’s escape.”

“But it will be so much worse than that! Don’t you see?!” Sherlock’s head is whirling. “Escape is the absolute minimum. He’d never have allowed himself to be taken if that was all he had planned.”

“But _what_ is he planning?” Lestrade appears, like Sherlock, to be at the end of his endurance.

“I don’t know!” Sherlock shouts, throwing up his hands. “If I knew why he had set up this entire farce to begin with, I could do something to prevent it. But I don’t, so I can’t!”

“Sherlock,” John murmurs, “it’s okay.”

The look he gives his friend borders on resignation. “No it’s not, John. It’s really not.”

“We’ll find a way to stop him,” John says with a confidence that Sherlock cannot duplicate. “I know it.”

“Let’s hope you’re right, Doctor,” a new voice interjects, and they turn to see DCS Coggins entering the room. “If this goes to shit, we’ll be counting on you.”

The florid flush of anger from before has faded, but the man’s face remains—it seems to Sherlock—grotesquely unpleasant.

“What do you mean?” John asks, more calmly than Sherlock would have, though there is an undercurrent of steel audible to those who know him well.

John asks the question, but it is Sherlock that Coggins’s eyes fall on. “I hope you’re as good as you seem to think you are, Holmes.”

“Meaning?” Sherlock asks shortly, though he already knows what the answer will be. On some level, he’s always known where this was headed.

“Meaning that Moriarty has requested to take a little jaunt through the city,” the Detective Chief Superintendent answers, smiling nastily. For what it’s worth, the expression appears an automatic one and without any genuine humour.

“And he wants you there with him.”

**

“This is insane!” John exclaims for what must be—conservatively speaking—the tenth time in as many minutes. “You can’t seriously be thinking of going along with this.” His friend paces in agitation, arms swinging at his sides in tense, angry movements.

Sherlock is sitting: he hadn’t really expected this to go any other way than how it has, and the sense of finale drawing near has rendered him oddly still.

“The Commissioner can’t make you go,” Lestrade says to Sherlock quietly, face drawn. “You’re not a police officer. No one can order you to do anything.”

Sherlock knows this, of course, though he appreciates that Lestrade feels compelled to state it so clearly.

“There’s no other way for this to proceed,” Sherlock replies, then clears his throat at the unexpectedly coarse sound of his voice. “Moriarty said very clearly that he would only lead us to the final device if I was part of the group that goes,” he reminds them, finishing more strongly.

“We don’t know that he’s planning on leading us to it anyway,” John says tensely. “In fact, I’d bet anything that he’s planning on _not_ leading us to it.” His friend stops pacing for a moment and rubs his eyes roughly, leaving them red. “You can’t go with him. You just can’t.”

There’s more being expressed than a concern for his physical safety. “I won’t,” Sherlock tells John as sincerely as he is able. “But I have to do this now. It’s the only way.”

“If you have to do this, then I have to come with you,” John says calmly, crossing his arms in expectation of Sherlock’s resistance.

It doesn’t come, although it’s one of the most difficult responses Sherlock has ever given. “Okay,” Sherlock says after a deep breath.

John’s arms drop in shock. “Okay?”

Sherlock nods slowly. “I’m not-, If you’re willing to trust that I know what I’m doing in this situation, I’m not enough of a hypocrite to not extend the same courtesy to you.” Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock sees Lestrade smile slightly.

“Just don’t do anything foolish,” Sherlock tells John, who is looking at him with a vaguely flummoxed expression that would no doubt segue into a soft smile, were this any other occasion. “I don’t want to lose you.”

John sobers immediately. “You won’t,” he says seriously. “But, watch out for yourself, okay? I’m not the one Moriarty is interested in.”

“I’m not sure I am, either,” Sherlock tells John. His flatmate wrinkles his eyebrow in confusion, but isn’t given a chance to question the statement.

“I can understand your concern, Doctor,” DCS Vincent says as he joins them. Coggins is just behind him. “But every step possible is being taken to ensure your safety. The vehicle you will be traveling in was built with bullet-proof glass and siding and is outfitted with GPS. We’ve also assigned two of the Met’s helicopter units as well as numerous officers on the ground to monitor the operation. If Moriarty has planned anything, he won’t be able to do it unseen.”

“You’d bet our lives on that, would you?” John asks darkly.

DCS Vincent doesn’t answer, though the sudden flare of shame in his eyes makes it obvious that he personally is opposed to the progression of events. It’s not much, but it does make Sherlock feel a bit better: realizing that the officer—one of the officers for whom he is risking his and John’s life—is a good man who would trade places with him in an instant.

“Are we ready, then?” Lestrade asks, standing and strapping on a tactical vest that he pulls from a bag near his feet. Sherlock looks at him with surprise, though he realizes he absolutely should have expected this. “I’ll be coming along as well,” the DI says. “I can’t have my favourite pet project wreaking havoc on London without me there to see to things.”

Sherlock doesn’t know what to say. Then he does. “If anything, you’re my project, Inspector. I’ll make a detective of you yet.”

Whatever reply Lestrade would have made is violently pre-empted with the return of the mocking, sing-song voice Sherlock is coming to loathe.

“Isn’t this _exciting_?” Moriarty says as he enters the room, a constable on either side of him and his arms in cuffs. Locard follows just behind. “All of us together. Working for the common good. It’s enough to bring a tear to my eye.”

Sherlock doesn’t look at him. “Are you ready?” he asks John in a low voice.

“As ready as I’m going to get,” John replies grimly. Despite Moriarty’s presence, he grabs Sherlock’s hand and squeezes it once before donning a vest of his own and forcing Sherlock into one as well. Sherlock allows it, but only just.

As they are climbing into the police lorry that the CTC has requisitioned, Donovan slips into one of the seats along the side bench, fully outfitted in tactical gear. She returns Sherlock’s raised eyebrow with a challenging stare. “Don’t think for a moment that you’re going without me. I’m not letting you get everyone killed, freak.”

“Good to have you along, Sergeant,” Lestrade says, mouth twitching into a smile.

“Yes, indeed, Sergeant Donovan,” Moriarty pipes up jovially. “The more the merrier.” He is seated at the very back of the hold, flanked on either side by his uniformed escort. Locard settles beside Lestrade, with Sherlock and John across from them.

Then the door slams shut, the sound echoing only once in the small space. Sherlock tries not to be effected by baseless imaginings and worries.

But he can’t help but note that the sound of the door closing seems so very final.

**

Moriarty himself planned the logistics for the drive, which Sherlock finds distinctly unnerving. He gives the directions to one of the constables seated beside him, who in turn uses his radio to relay it to the driver. It is a slow, halting trip, as the driver—a CTC officer—proceeds to the intersection named, only to pause and wait for new instructions. If Sherlock was not so incredibly tense, he’d go mad from boredom within a quarter of an hour.

Surprisingly, Moriarty is silent save for his announcement of the next stop on their drive. Sherlock almost wishes for the ceaseless chatter and innuendo he’s come to expect. It would at least distract him from running scenarios of Moriarty’s escape (in the most happy of possible outcomes) ceaselessly through his mind: a useless endeavour with nothing to ground it.

The lorry follows a strange, circuitous route. Using his unparalleled mental map of London, Sherlock at first attempts to extrapolate a final destination, but it soon becomes clear that, wherever Moriarty is leading them, he is not following a course determined by logic.

It is almost a relief when something happens, as, of course, it must.

There is a loud bang, the lorry draws to a sudden halt, and the radios of the two uniformed constables flanking Moriarty begin to squawk angrily.

“ _The road’s gone out in front of us_ ,” comes the surprised voice of the driver. “ _It’s-!_ ” The voice abruptly cuts off, and Lestrade curses and jumps to his feet. From where he leans indifferently against the back wall, Moriarty giggles.

“There’s nowhere to go, James,” Locard says to the criminal calmly. A pounding begins to emanate from the cab of the lorry. “The whole of London is under the closest of surveillance. You will not be able to escape.”

“Escape, Edmond? And leave all of you?” Moriarty says with lowered eyelashes. “Perish the thought.” Donovan and Lestrade leap up to unlock the back of the lorry, but try as they might, they are unable to budge it.

“ _Air 1 to Dispatch, there’s something wrong with the instruments,_ ” says the tense voice of the helicopter pilot.

“ _This is Air 2, Dispatch. We’re having the same problem. We have to go to ground imm-._ ”

It’s like watching a train wreck, though in this case, there are no visuals to highlight the danger of the situation for those present: only the gleeful eyes of the man who has orchestrated it.

And the incessant, loud report from the front of the lorry, echoing throughout the space that has become their prison.

“The Met’s transportation yard is surprisingly easy to gain access to,” Moriarty says casually. He flicks a pleased eye toward Lestrade. “You should look into that, Inspector. Someone could take _advantage_.” The DI looks for a moment as though he wants to rush the other man, face flushed and arms extended, but instead he turns back to hammer futilely on the door.

“Is anyone there? Sergeant Johnson!” Lestrade yells. There is no response.

At that moment, the radio, which had been continuously broadcasting panic, shock, and worry (the emotions as muted as the professionals communicating the words can make them) cuts off entirely. “Dispatch? Dispatch?!” one of the constables presses the button on the handset frantically but receives only static in response.

“Mm, I’m afraid that won’t help, Constable,” Moriarty says over the rhythmic banging. “The entire system is down, and there’s nothing to be done. Radio towers are so _fragile_ , aren’t they? But don’t worry,” he looks at Sherlock and smiles with satisfaction.

 _Bang_ : the sound comes again from the front of the lorry. Sherlock feels pinned by Moriarty’s gaze. “You’re in good hands,” the criminal says. _Bang._

Sherlock feels John grab his hand just as a large tool—akin to a tapered metal nail, though frighteningly wide in diameter—punches through the back wall of the lorry, creating a small hole. A split second later, a rubber hose is threaded through the hole, and a sickly sweet odour fills the small space in a shockingly short moment. There’s no time to do anything.

As Sherlock falls into darkness—trying but ultimately failing to keep hold of John’s hand—he remembers his dream and a sense of horror seizes him. He struggles violently, but his body, already languid and distant, does not respond to his commands, and though he orders himself fiercely to remain calm, he begins to panic.

Luckily, it is at this point that he loses consciousness completely.

**

“Rise and shine, sweetheart.” A hand slaps his cheek none too gently, and Sherlock flinches from it.

A chuckle. “None of that, now. You need to wake up.” The hand transfers to his hair and begins to stroke through it gently. Despite being, as a whole, fond of the touch when John is the one administering it, a tiny voice deep in Sherlock’s mind whispers warnings that make his skin crawl. He tries to speak, but the only sound that emerges is a whimper.

“Given your history with narcotics, I’m surprised it’s taking you so long to recover. Wake up, Sherlock. Let me see those lovely eyes of yours. I’m quite fond of them. I’ve half a mind to rip them out and keep them for myself.”

As the voice continues, awareness slowly returns, and by the end of the rambling, unsettling statement, Sherlock is, in fact, able to open his eyes, already knowing full well what sight will greet him. His stomach roils with nausea.

“There he is!” Moriarty says joyfully. His hand is still tangled in Sherlock’s hair, and he uses it to tilt the detective’s head back to examine his face. “Still a _bit_ out of it, but I have to say that I don’t particularly mind. You’re so pretty when you’re pliant.”

Sherlock glares at him and attempts to pull away. Given the weakness plaguing him, this does not work as it should.

Moriarty laughs. “As enjoyable as _this_ is, dearest,” he tightens his fingers in Sherlock’s hair and gives him a small shake, “it’s time for the final act! So, come on, sit up. There’s a good lad.”

Sherlock pulls himself into a sitting position—possible, infuriatingly enough, only through Moriarty’s steadying hand—and takes in the situation.

John is alive. His mind catalogues the most important data available and then moves outward from there.

His flatmate is stretched out on the floor near the wall to Sherlock’s left, some ten metres away. He is just beginning to stir. Lestrade (awake and seated, though blurry eyed with confusion and pain), Donovan (entirely unconscious), and Locard (moving sluggishly) are near him. Of the two uniformed constables that had been in the lorry with them, there is no sign.

They are in a large room: dusty and dark, and draped all along its borders in long rolls of plastic. Four huge, towering columns extending floor-to-ceiling are scattered about like massive tree trunks, and for a moment Sherlock has a strange sense of vertigo, remembering the trees that had stood over him so comfortingly in the park.

As his eyes adjust to the dim light of his surroundings, he makes out an examining table off to his far right—draped in plastic and holding a set of acetylene cylinders—and realizes exactly where they are.

Moriarty sees him get it.

“We’re at the surgery!” The criminal claps his hands excitedly. “It seemed like an appropriate setting for the final movement, don’t you think? Well, really, your flat would have been better, but then I would have had to carry all of you up the stairs, and that just wouldn’t have done at all. Tell me what you think. Go ahead, now. I want your _unfiltered_ reaction.”

Sherlock looks away from Moriarty to return his eyes to his flatmate. It’s a petty piece of defiance, but at the moment, he’ll take his victories where he can find them.

It is only as John succeeds in pushing himself up into a sitting position and a metallic clanging sound echoes through the room that Sherlock realizes his friend is handcuffed into a line with Lestrade, Donovan, and Locard, the four of them affixed to a large metal pipe behind the ripped plasterboard that has been exposed by the renovations.

There is not a similar shackle on Sherlock’s own wrist, and he forces his mind not to dwell on the likely implication.

Sherlock wets his lips. They taste of plasterboard dust. His limbs feel tremblingly weak, and—despite his physical freedom—he knows a rush at Moriarty at this point would not end in his favour.

He needs more time.

“And what about your friend, Lieutenant Moran? Won’t he be joining us?” Sherlock asks, casting his eyes up at Moriarty.

The other man pauses, caught by surprise for a moment, before he laughs in delight. “Oh, you _are_ good! How did you know? It makes absolutely no difference in how this will play out, of course, but still: how did you figure it out?”

“Soldiers,” Sherlock says, closing his eyes briefly. “There were far too many soldiers involved in this case for it to be a coincidence. Brunton, for instance. And his method of death was too…sensational to be impersonal.”

Behind the criminal, Donovan and Locard are stirring—Lestrade assisting them to sitting position as much as the chains will allow—while John watches the tableaux. Realizing where his eyes have landed, Sherlock tears them away from his flatmate with effort. As much as it hurts him to watch John watching _this_ , he cannot afford to be distracted.

 _Distracted_.

“Go on.” Moriarty’s eyes are gleaming and unblinking as Sherlock recounts his deductive process.

“And Heidegger had a military background as well,” Sherlock continues, remembering the military style trunk in the man’s classroom. “St Clair worked as an engineering contractor for the military on several occasions. Taking these together as a starting point, it wasn’t difficult to find out which platoon they had in common.”

“You found one, I assume?”

“I found three, but only one of them had a Lieutenant court-martialed for homicide. And, of course,” he adds tiredly, “you told me as well.” And Moriarty had during their final moments in the interview room. _‘They’re so very loyal, soldiers. And so good at taking direction.’_

Moriarty smiles approvingly. “Very good, Sherlock. Very good indeed. Seb!” he raises his voice. “Seb, come join us.”

The man that joins them from the shadows—where he must have been silently crouched and waiting during the entire conversation—is of average size with well-muscled shoulders, thick, dark hair, and surprisingly weathered skin, given what Sherlock knows to be his age. His eyes are hazel leaning toward green, and they are fixed on Sherlock with cold-blooded hatred.

Moriarty laughs. “I’m afraid he doesn’t approve of you, dear, but don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll be thick as thieves in no time at all.”

Sherlock swallows his fear and hopes the sound isn’t as audible as it seems. He’s begun to feel strength returning to his legs, but with Moran now present—and the handgun in his hands a visible and effective threat—the odds have again tipped out of his favour. He doesn’t know what to do. “When exactly are we going to get to the point of this charade?”

“The point?” Moriarty tilts his head quizzically to the side, and from the corner of his eye, Sherlock sees Moran track the movement.

“Yes, Jim, the _reason_ you’ve gathered us here.”

Moriarty grins. “But Sherlock, I thought it would be obvious. I haven’t exactly been subtle, have I?”

Sherlock is abruptly tired of the charade. “No, you haven’t, but you’re too clever to be obvious. You wouldn’t want us to suspect your prize in all of this, and we haven’t. We’ve been too distracted with the rest of your performance.” He says the last somewhat bitterly before pushing the failure from his mind. What matters is what happens next.

“Prize, hmm? And tell me, Sherlock, what exactly is my prize in all of this? Why am I here if not to continue our little tete-a-tete?”

“To obtain unrestricted access to the I-24/7 system,” Sherlock says bluntly.

For a moment, Moriarty looks utterly stunned; then he throws back his head and laughs unreservedly. “Twice in five minutes! I haven’t had this much fun in ages.” He wipes an imaginary tear from his eye and smiles down at Sherlock approvingly. “Truly, you’re worth all the trouble.”

“You didn’t go to this trouble for _me_ ,” Sherlock tells Moriarty coldly. “This is about Locard. You knew the best way to lure him—the Interpol agent personally assigned to your case—out into the open was to be captured. So you turned yourself in, setting up this ‘game’ all the while to lead the Commissioner to do exactly what you wanted: to set you two in the same lorry. Moran did the rest, no doubt with the aid of your explicit instructions.”

“Not as explicit as you may think,” Moriarty says dryly. “He’s quite handy.” He raises an eyebrow at Sherlock. “But tell me, oh great detective, why wouldn’t I just take him from his home in Lyons? I have the address. You have a lovely garden, by the way,” he says to Locard. “Beautiful marigolds.”

“If Locard was kidnapped in such circumstances, Interpol would eliminate his access codes at once. He’s a high level agent, no doubt with considerable access to Interpol’s records.”

“The highest,” Locard says from where he sits propped against the wall. His face is grey, an indication that he did not take well to the anaesthetic gas they were exposed to, but his eyes are sharp enough to cut.

“But if he were killed while performing his duty, it is unlikely that the codes would be eliminated so quickly,” Sherlock continues. “Interpol would see no need to rush, since, after all, if Locard was dead, his codes would remain secure. There would be more than enough time for you to set up whatever sort of backdoor into the database that you’re planning.”

Behind Moriarty, Sherlock sees John and Lestrade shifting together, eyes telegraphing messages and intent that Sherlock is too far to decipher, but which have Donovan nodding in understanding. Sherlock feels a sudden rush of fear and looks to Moran…

…who doesn’t see it. The former soldier’s gaze as riveted on Moriarty as Moriarty’s is riveted upon Sherlock, and Sherlock remembers Locard’s words in the hallway about weaknesses and those who share them.

Sherlock is still without a plan—a complete and effective one at any rate—but it suddenly occurs to him that perhaps he doesn’t need one. He just needs to play his part and trust the others to play theirs.

“You’re quite right,” Moriarty says. “It will only take a minute, once I have what I’m looking for. And then I’m afraid Edmond Locard will be quite _tragically_ killed in duty.” The criminal stands looking down at Locard for a moment before he swings toward Sherlock, mouth once again composed into an enigmatic smile. “But I’m afraid you weren’t _quite_ correct, my dear. Close though. Impressively close.”

Moriarty steps nearer to Sherlock—too near—and crouches down beside him, his breath hot on Sherlock’s face. “You see, it’s not _entirely_ about Agent Locard here. Not completely.” He reaches out a hand to tuck a curl behind Sherlock’s ear, and the detective resists the almost overwhelming urge to flinch, not from the hand, but from the expression on his enemy’s face.

“I could have set this little plan up anywhere, but I chose London. And do you know why?” Moriarty asks softly, his voice almost tender.

Sherlock does know why, but he refuses to answer. It makes no difference, as Moriarty continues in that same, appallingly intimate voice.

“You, of course. The panic, the deaths. Those are all for _you_ , Sherlock. And there are more where those came from. So many, many more.” Moriarty sits back on his heels and fondly touches Sherlock’s cheek, exactly in the place where Moriarty bears his scar. “We’re going to have a grand time, you and I, once I teach you some _appropriate_ manners.” The fingers abruptly become a claw, and Moriarty scratches them cruelly over Sherlock’s skin.

He recoils from the pain, but he refuses to cry out, instead glaring up at his enemy with more hatred than he had ever known he was capable of.

John has apparently had enough. “Leave him alone,” he orders, pushing himself up onto his knees in the dust. He looks furious.

Moriarty stands up from his crouch and spins to face Sherlock’s friend. “Oh, it speaks! I was beginning to wonder.”

“You’re not going to escape from here,” John tells Moriarty stubbornly. “You’re going to get caught. Or killed. Frankly, I’d prefer the latter.”

Moriarty laughs. “I’m sorry to disappoint, Johnny, but as it happens, I _will_ get away from here just fine. I planned this too well for it to end in any other way. And when I go, I’ll take everything I want with me.” He glances slyly at Sherlock as he says this, as if a specific illustration of what exactly he plans on taking is necessary.

Something in Sherlock snaps. He’s so _sick_ of these games. “I’m not going with you.”

Moriarty draws in a breath. “Oh, yes you are.”

“I’d rather die,” Sherlock says defiantly, and he means it.

Rather than being in any way put out, Moriarty smiles genially and turns to John.

“Tell him to come with me.” Sherlock freezes.

John glares defiantly up at the other man. “Go. To. Hell.”

Moriarty’s dangerous smile doesn’t drop one iota. “I’ve been as kind as I know how to be, John. But I certainly don’t have to be. There are any number of sweet, innocent things out and about in London that I can find to work out my _aggravation_. Your Mrs Hudson, perhaps. Or Sarah the Doctor. That little girl who you treated last week for strep throat. Who shall it be?” Moriarty steps closer to John with every word, Moran moving to keep an unbroken line of sight around the beams. His steps echo hollowly in the empty space, and John seems unable to look away from the face of his madness.

“Tell your dearest detective to come with me, and I’ll play nice. Tell him.” His voice drops to a persuasive whisper.

John looks at Sherlock, wide-eyed and horrified.

“Go with him.” The voice isn’t John’s, and Sherlock tears his eyes from his lover to see Donovan staring at him steadily. There is a bruise forming on her head where she must have hit it when they were knocked unconscious, and her hair is a mess. “Go with him, freak,” she says roughly. “Save the people who can’t save themselves.”

Sherlock stares at her, and—inexplicably—feels himself steady in the face of her unflinching dedication to duty.

Moriarty claps again, but the mood of the room has wholly changed, and he is no longer the centre of a drama of his own making. He seems to realize this, because he frowns petulantly and whirls to return to Sherlock. Moran again matches his steps in his own circle about the room, eyes never wavering from his employer.

“You heard her, _’freak’_ ,” Moriarty says, grabbing Sherlock’s hair and pulling his head back roughly to recapture his attention. “Come with me, cooperate just the _teensiest_ bit, and I’ll spare whomever it is you’re most afraid of me hurting.”

Moriarty steps back and flashes a wide, rictus grin, eyes fever bright. “There’s nothing to be done for this bunch here, I’m afraid, but try not to worry. Once we’re away together, I won’t let you _dwell_ on their loss.”

“And are we to be victims of your chemical as well?” Locard asks. He, with Lestrade’s assistance, has pulled himself to his knees, and he stares at Moriarty without fear.

Moriarty doesn’t bother to look at him, instead continuing to watch Sherlock. “Ah, no, that was a little _fib_ on my part, I’m afraid,” Moriarty says with hilarity, as though revealing a particularly good joke. “Not to belittle you, my dear Locard, but it’s fairly expensive as far as weapons go—Ukrainians, you know—and I don’t want to waste any without a _very_ good reason. Bullets should suffice for all of you.”

He states the last so matter-of-factly that it chills Sherlock through ( _and the thought of John, chained like an animal as Moran advances upon him_ ), and he has to consciously remind himself to breathe. Between that and his glare of hate at the other man, his overwhelming anger at the situation leaves him with nothing to say.

As it happens, he does not have to say anything.

The pipe that John is cuffed to is a water pipe, which Sherlock abruptly learns when John and Lestrade throw themselves at it. A vicious kick on the part of his flatmate, and hot water is suddenly rushing about the floor while steam hisses violently into the air.

The air where Moran is standing. With a shout, Moran ducks his head, only to meet Donovan’s perfectly timed kick as she—with Locard’s assistance—throws herself as far as the chain will allow. The handgun goes flying, and Sherlock dives for it, scrambling to reach it before Moriarty.

Thanks to his superior reach, he does, but he finds himself pinned in place by the other man, who—though shorter than Sherlock—is stronger than he appears and is well versed in the use of effective leverage.

“Stop _resisting_ me,” Moriarty hisses in his ear. “Why won’t you just _give in_?!”

Sherlock struggles at the words—struggles with every bit of strength he can—and throws Moriarty off.

“Not in my nature,” he gasps. Sherlock clutches the gun triumphantly and leaps to his feet (his legs shake pitifully, but they hold him) to take aim on the consulting criminal.

Only to see that Moran, recovered from the surprise of the steam, has placed himself in front of the other man. He’s holding a second gun ( _how? from where?_ Sherlock’s mind cries in despair), and as Sherlock watches, Moran turns the weapon on John, who, along with the others, is trying to slip the end of the shackle off the now-broken pipe.

John freezes at the sound of a bullet being chambered, and Sherlock stops breathing.

“Well,” Moriarty says unemotionally, “that was an unexpected diversion.” He turns to Sherlock and gestures for him to come. To heel. “But I’m afraid we simply can’t tarry any longer. It’s time to go.”

Sherlock keeps the gun trained on the other man, and Moriarty smiles. “Yes, yes, such _bravado_. It’s all well and good, but you know as well as I that even if you hit Seb on your first shot and kill him instantly, you won’t be fast enough to save your mutt. If you shoot me instead, he still dies.”

“He’s dead anyway,” Sherlock says roughly, keeping his hands steady. “Isn’t that the plan, Jim? I know he’d rather die here, now, knowing I’d taken you out.”

“I would,” John agrees, eyes trained on Moran. Despite the tension obvious in his frame, his voice is steady. “Do it, Sherlock.”

Sherlock takes a step toward Moriarty, finger on the trigger. “Of course, if I kill Lieutenant Moran, and he kills John, that’s almost a fair trade, isn’t it?”

Moriarty’s face goes blank as his eyebrow raises incredulously. “Why, how remarkably cold blooded of you, Sherlock. It almost makes me…proud.”

Sherlock ignores the statement. “I’d lose the most important person in my life, but you would as well.”

Moriarty laughs at the insinuation, but from the corner of his eye, Sherlock sees Moran tense. “Important? Dear, you know as well as I that people aren’t ever _important_. At most, they’re convenient and occasionally amusing.”

Sherlock takes another step toward the pair. “I think the idea bothers you more than you let on. Where else will you find someone else so _’handy’_?” Moran’s extended arms begin to tremble finely as he continues to aim at John, but his eyes have strayed to Sherlock.

Sherlock steps again—slightly to the left this time—and Moran’s hands twitch.

“I’ll manage,” Moriarty replies dismissively before grinning knowingly. “Are you volunteering? I have to say, I had a rather _different_ position in mind for you, but I’m flexible.”

Sherlock takes no notice of the intimation and takes another step. “What was it that you said, again?” He cocks his head to the side in an imitation of Moriarty’s mannerism. “Oh yes, soldiers make the best pets. Because they’re loyal and so very _good_ at following direction.”

Sherlock stops at last, five metres from the man he is unwaveringly aiming at. The trembling of Moran’s arms is more obvious, his fingers tensing and releasing on the gun: never enough to pull the trigger, but drawing closer with every movement.

Sherlock stands confidently, shoulders back and head up, and pushes every bit of subtext he can into his words as he stares at Moriarty. “He seems like the type to enjoy taking orders. Very…loyal. Have you liked that, Jim? Do you enjoy _’directing’_ him?”

Moran snaps, swinging the gun toward Sherlock, but Sherlock is already moving, diving to the left and putting the new steel beam between himself and the gun that is firing.

Sherlock fires a bullet of his own as he dives to the ground. It misses Moriarty, flying almost a metre to his left, before continuing on to strike the collection of acetylene cylinders behind him.

For a moment, the world goes white and hot.

The resulting explosion is larger than Sherlock had calculated, but the workmanship of the steel lives up to its reputation, and when the sound, light, and heat fade away, Sherlock is somewhat singed and completely covered in a fine layer of soot, but he’s alive. The air is completely filled with dust, and he can’t see more than a handful of feet around him.

He fervently hopes the explosion served its purpose.

He thinks he hears a sound somewhere off behind him, but the ringing in his ears drowns it out. He pushes himself weakly onto his hands and knees and shakes his head. The sound comes again. This time he makes it out.

“Sherlock!” John is yelling. His friend is interrupted by a cough. “Sherlock!”

“Here!” Sherlock calls back. His voice comes out a croak before he is beset by his own fit of coughing. “John, I’m here!”

John—no longer attached to the others (Sherlock can’t help but wonder who among them managed to pick the lock and why they took so long to do it)—emerges from the dusty, smoke-filled air like a wraith. He stumbles to his knees next to Sherlock and runs gentle, exploratory hands over his torso to check for injuries. “Are you alright? What the _hell_ did you do?”

Sherlock pushes his hands away and sits up. It’s more difficult than he had anticipated, and he winces with the knowledge of the bruises he is going to have in the morning.

John misinterprets his expression. “Are you injured?”

“No, no,” Sherlock waves off John’s concern before coughing again and immediately rekindling it. “I’m fine.”

“Yes, you sound fine,” John says dryly, but he does lean back when it becomes obvious Sherlock’s breathing difficulties are due to an inhalation of particulates rather than a punctured lung. They sit together for a moment in peace before John takes a moment to really look around what is left of the surgery. “You…don’t do anything by halves, do you?”

“It seemed…”Sherlock pauses for a cough, “expedient.”

“Okay,” John trails off. Then he leans down and kisses Sherlock thoroughly. “Just don’t do it again.”

Sherlock licks his lips. This time they taste of plasterboard dust and John, and he smiles with relief. “No promises.”


	8. Chapter 8

Locard, Donovan, and Lestrade were also unharmed by the blast, and when the paramedics arrive—along with the what seems to be the full force of the Met, which pinpointed their location by virtue of the rather extensive explosion—they have no injuries to treat.

The only other person present in the surgery is beyond their help.

Where Moriarty and Moran had been standing, only a single body is present: burned far beyond the point where visual identification would be possible and further destroyed by the caving in of the surgery’s roof, some ten minutes after the explosion.

Sherlock watches from the ambulance as the paramedics remove the remains, another one of those ridiculous shock blankets draped about him. The sun is only just rising, and the world is awash in a grey light that will soon turn golden.

John bumps his shoulder from where he sits next to him in a matching blanket. “Try not to think about it.”

Sherlock retaliates with a gentle kick to his friend’s leg. “Try not to think about what?”

“About the uncertainty of body identification. I know that’s what you’re worrying about.”

That is precisely what Sherlock had been pondering. “There may be some DNA that is salvageable,” he responds, playing an oddly optimistic devil’s advocate.

“There may,” John allows. “But then you’ll point out that DNA is only as good as the sample you have to compare it to, and what information on Moriarty can we really trust anyway?” He shrugs at Sherlock’s raised eyebrow. “I know how you think, Sherlock. But I’m telling you, it’s best not to think about it. You’ll just drive yourself crazy wondering if he’s still alive.”

Sherlock looks back toward the wrecked building. John hasn’t mentioned the destruction of his place of employment, but Sherlock is assuming John will soon be seeking another position. Provided he can get anything approximating a positive reference, of course, which Sherlock highly doubts. He is not overly familiar with working for others, but it is his understanding that the destruction of capital investments by employees is rather frowned upon.

“What if he is still out there?” Sherlock asks, giving voice to the fear that had sprouted in the back of his mind at the first record of the single corpse. He worries the edge of the hideous orange blanket.

John catches Sherlock’s hand in his own. “Then we’ll fight him and beat him. Again.” John is smiling gently. “I assume at some point, he’ll get the hint. Or we’ll kill him. Either way,” he adds with a yawn, pillowing his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Let’s deal with it tomorrow.”

Sherlock shifts so John’s head rests more comfortably. “Tomorrow,” he agrees.

He spends the rest of the time he’s sequestered to the ambulance watching London wake around them.

**

Locard stops by Baker Street briefly before he returns to Lyons.

He is greeted enthusiastically by Mrs Hudson, who insists on loading his luggage with butter cookies in thanks for all his help ‘keeping Sherlock from doing himself in.’ Gladstone, who takes to him immediately, sniffs joyfully at his knees every time the agent moves, and Locard responds each time by gentling rubbing the dog’s ears.

It really is nauseating.

“Monsieur, I wanted to thank you again for your timely actions,” Locard tells Sherlock when they are momentarily free of Mrs Hudson, who has departed with John to walk Gladstone in the park. “They were extremely brave.”

“They are nothing you need to thank me for,” Sherlock replies, unsure of how to respond to the nonchalantly delivered praise. “I was trying to save myself as well. It wasn’t entirely noble.”

“You were trying to save us all,” Locard corrects. “And you succeeded. Interpol would do well to have a man like you in our ranks.”

“Not interested,” Sherlock says immediately. The thought of the bureaucracy alone makes him shudder.

Locard smiles at his reaction. “No, perhaps not. And perhaps it is for the best, as well. It would be a disservice to remove you from the team that suits you so well.”

Sherlock almost chokes on his tea. “Locard, I’m a _private_ consulting detective. I work alone. There is no ‘team.’”

The agent nods solemnly, but he makes no effort to hide the amusement in his eyes. “Ah, of course, I misspoke. Please think no more of it. Instead, tell me of the research you have currently set in the kitchen there. It has application for forensics, no?”

When John and Mrs Hudson return, they are both caught up in finishing—at last—the experiment that had been necessarily placed on hold. Locard is invited to stay for dinner, which he declines with regret and polite apologies as he leaves to catch his train.

It is another hour yet before Mrs Hudson leaves for the night, and Sherlock is alone with his lover for the first time in almost a week.

Things progress quickly.

John touches Sherlock gently, mindful of the bruises which are just beginning to paint their evidence across his back and torso. His fingers lay lightly on the detective’s hips, but his lips attack Sherlock’s with a passion that provides an (enjoyable) outlet to the fear of the past few days.

When the heat between them has progressed to a point where a more horizontal surface would be preferable, Sherlock pulls his mouth away from his friend’s and pants. “Bed?”

John murmurs an agreement into Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock shivers. “My room?” he asks, glad that the passion from their activities hides whatever tentativeness may be present in the question. John has never given any indication that he’d be comfortable in Sherlock’s bed, and for him to presume to ask…

But John is smiling and nodding, and then he’s standing and pulling Sherlock with him, and before Sherlock knows it, they’re in Sherlock’s room, on Sherlock’s bed, and there’s no hesitation at all.

“Why,” Sherlock asks, arching his neck as John leans down to kiss it. “Why haven’t we ever done this in here before?”

“Hmm?” John sounds distracted, and Sherlock pulls his hair. “Oww. What?”

“Why haven’t we ever made love in my bed?” Sherlock asks him calmly, giving no indication of his own thrill at the use of the phrase.

John blinks down at him from where he’s propped up above Sherlock’s chest. “I was waiting for you to invite me in here. I know how important your space is to you.”

Sherlock stares up at him for a moment before reaching out a hand to cup the back of John’s head and bring him back down. “That’s a good answer,” he says to John’s lips. John hums in agreement, which tickles delightfully and sparks another form of communication entirely.

Sherlock takes his time baring John’s skin, revelling in each square inch individually as it is uncovered, and John seems likewise inspired by Sherlock’s. By the time they are both fully undressed, they are trembling with need, hands pawing at one another without finesse but with a great deal of enthusiasm.

John places warm, callused hands on Sherlock’s sides as he leans down to lick a stripe up Sherlock’s collarbone. Sherlock arches into the touch automatically, and when he lies back down on the bed, John’s hands move to catch his lower half. His lover’s hands are gentle, massaging the flesh and lightly brushing over the pale skin.

Then one of the gentle, questioning fingers drops lower, and Sherlock gasps.

John stops immediately. “Are you alright?” His voice is taut, and Sherlock realizes that John is just as unsure with the implication of his finger’s movement as Sherlock.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock reassures him, shifting his legs to bracket them around John’s hips. “Please continue.”

John doesn’t move. “Are you sure?” he asks Sherlock cautiously.

“Yes,” Sherlock says emphatically. He’s a bit nervous, it’s true, but he’s certainly thought about this enough. He was wondering John would ever indicate an interest, unless…”Unless you don’t want to?” he asks John, and this time there is no hiding the insecurity.

John leans down to nip at his lips. “Of course I _want_ to, Sherlock. Jesus Christ. But, well, it’s your first time, right? With all of this.” John’s gesture to the both of them presumably encompasses ‘all of this.’ “And I didn’t want you to feel pressured to do something, anything, before you were ready…Why are you looking at me like that?”

Sherlock sits up and kisses John—stupid, wonderful John—as ardently as he can. “I’m sure,” he says after he’s satisfied he’s expressed himself. “Get on with it, please.”

John lets out a breathless, somewhat nervous laugh. “It figures you would be pushy about this too. Do you have anything…?”

Sherlock slaps a bottle of lotion into his hand and follows it up with a condom. “Well?” he asks, heart pounding furiously.

In response, John leans down and kisses Sherlock again, one hand running through his hair and the other lightly squeezing his hip, until the detective relaxes against him. Sherlock has always enjoyed kissing John—can’t get enough of it, really—and so when John finally does uncap the bottle to squeeze some lotion onto his hand, Sherlock hardly notices.

When the finger returns, slick now, and more purposeful in its movements, he can’t stop a sudden, indrawn breath.

“It’s alright. I’ve got you,” John murmurs, and Sherlock forces his body to relax. When the touch comes again, he is prepared for it, and does not tense.

“Good. That’s good,” John says as he kisses him before adding a second finger. It’s slightly uncomfortable, a light burn in a place that is unused to sensation, but then John grabs Sherlock’s erection—slightly flagging, but still present—with his free hand, and the detective forgets the intrusion in the golden haze of pleasure that grips him.

The third finger is worse, and Sherlock shifts uncomfortably, despite John’s steady attention to the rest of him.

John waits patiently as Sherlock breathes (though Sherlock can tell that it costs his lover no little amount of self-restraint, if the trembling of his arms is any indication), and after a few minutes, Sherlock’s body relaxes.

“Are you ready?” John asks him quietly, and Sherlock nods. When this does not appear to be enough, he verbalizes it as well.

“Yes, I’m ready,” he says. John shifts him gently onto his side with Sherlock helping as much as he is able, though his body has suddenly become loose and stupid with John’s ministrations, so in the end, he is mostly a hindrance.

The first slow push that John makes into him makes Sherlock tense up immediately. It hurts, and even though he knew it would, even though he was expecting it, it is his body’s automatic reaction to clamp down and put a stop to whatever is causing him pain.

“It’s okay,” John says, stroking Sherlock’s hair back from his sweaty face. “It’s okay. Take your time. Just breathe.”

Breathing helps, and matching his breathing to John’s helps even more. Sherlock can feel his own heartbeat—faster than it should be, but that’s hardly surprising—and it forms a complex counter-rhythm to the sound of their breaths as they lie together.

When Sherlock is as relaxed as he is going to get, John pushes in further. He continues in this fashion—it feels as though it takes hours, though in reality it is probably no more than five minutes—until he is fully inside, and the pain begins to fade.

John’s breathing has sped up with every progressive inch, so Sherlock begins following his own rhythm instead, tracing John’s hands where they rest on Sherlock’s stomach with his fingers to distract himself until his body adjusts.

And it does adjust, as Sherlock had known it would. Every aspect of his life has arranged itself to welcome John into it, and he knew—when he allowed himself to truly imagine this moment—that his body would be no different.

“Are you…ready?” John breathes, the breath warm on Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock has barely nodded before his lover is moving: pulling slowly backward and then returning, a low, sweet groan escaping his throat and twisting—metaphorically—around Sherlock’s chest.

When the next thrust comes, it collides with something in Sherlock that makes the stars in the sky outside shine clear through the ceiling of their flat.

Sherlock realizes distantly that he shouted, is continuing to shout, and that John is speaking over him, a constant litany of breathy words. “It’s okay, it’s alright, you’re alright. I’m here. I’ve got you. Sherlock. Sherlock.”

Their movements speed up, though neither of them is in any place to try to draw this out, and Sherlock doesn’t even bother trying.

John reaches again for Sherlock’s erection, and Sherlock takes the opportunity to dip his head back and nip his lover’s neck when the golden flesh is within reach.

John curses as he comes, and his hand tightens, and then Sherlock is coming as well, John’s warm arms around him the only things preventing him from flying straight up to join those stars that are so inexplicably in his bedroom.

When he comes back to himself, he is turned on his back, looking up—with what is no doubt a rather stupid expression—Into the flushed face of his lover. John is watching him with something like awe, his hand gently brushing Sherlock’s face and hair, and his is so bright, so soft, that Sherlock has to close his eyes and kiss him before he flies away again.

**

Later:

It ends with a phone call from Mycroft.

This time Sherlock answers the first call. Locard’s assistance on his analysis the day before has brought the experiment to a place that allows him to pause temporarily for a conversation.

And, though he is unlikely to admit it, he is curious to know the outcome of his brother’s experience with international travel.

“Still alive, then?” Mycroft asks. His voice is tired, but he sounds…relaxed. More relaxed than Sherlock can remember hearing him in his recent memory.

“Don’t be obvious,” Sherlock reprimands. “You’ve been receiving updates from your underlings for the past week. You know perfectly well how the situation played out.”

Mycroft doesn’t deny it. “It is so much more preferable to hear the outcome from one who was actually present, don’t you think?”

“You’ll manage,” Sherlock says dismissively as he sits down on the sofa. Gladstone immediately rushes to push behind his knees, and he reaches down to pet the dog absently. “And how was Morocco? I hear the bird watching is lovely.”

“Sherlock, I’ve repeatedly told you not to hack into my email.”

Sherlock is offended. “Mycroft, please, I _can_ read. I saw the paper this morning. And you always benefit from my security analysis of your servers. If anything, I should be charging you.”

The animal’s fur, as riotous as it is, is surprisingly soft and springy, and Sherlock allows himself a moment of quiet pleasure as he leans back on the sofa. The dog looks up at him somewhat mournfully, and he shifts to allow it to jump up beside him, a warm ball against his side.

“Sherlock?” his brother questions. “Is this a bad time?”

“No, no,” Sherlock says, stifling a yawn as he stretches out more comfortably. “I was picturing you in a djellaba and had to pause a moment to collect myself.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mycroft says stiffly. He pauses. “A bernousse was all that was required.”

Sherlock grins, more at the idea of Mycroft attempting to be humorous than at the joke—such as it was—itself.

“I am glad that you’re safe,” his brother says abruptly, and Sherlock’s eyes widen slightly. It is unlike Mycroft to be so overt.

“Did you ingest hashish?” Sherlock asks him suspiciously.

Mycroft sighs. “Don’t be tiresome.”

“You’ve never shown concern for my wellbeing before.” There are steps on the flat stairs, and Gladstone’s ears perk up.

Sherlock can almost hear his brother’s raised eyebrow. “If you believe that, then you clearly haven’t been paying attention.” It’s a fair point, and Sherlock drops the line of conversation.

Across the room, John takes the last step down the stairs. His hair is rucked up on one side, and he stumbles slightly as he rubs the sleep from his eyes.

The smile he gives Sherlock when he sees him lying on the sofa is brilliant.

“Sherlock, shall I call again at a different time?” The voice is rather muted, and Sherlock realizes he’s unknowingly pulled the phone away from his ear. He replaces it.

“Whatever for?” he asks Mycroft, eyes trained on John as his friend walks toward him.

“At the moment you sound…distracted,” Mycroft says. He sounds mystified, which is absolutely lovely, and Sherlock knows he will enjoy remembering this moment.

Sometime later.

“Mm, no, just happy,” Sherlock says before ending the call and reaching for John.

**Author's Note:**

> More Notes!
> 
> The canon stories used in this story were (in order of appearance): The Adventure of the Priory School, The Adventure of the Musgrave Ritual, and The Man with the Twisted Lip.
> 
> While Agent Locard was created for this story, his name, appearance, and origin are in reference to [Edmond Locard](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edmond_Locard), a pioneer in forensic science.


End file.
